FOUR 

M  ASTE  D 
CATi^BO  AT 


AND 

OTHER 

TRUTHFUL 

TALES, 


CHARLES 
BATTELL 
LOOMIS. 


The  Four-Masted 
Cat-Boat 


The 
Four-Masted  Cat-Boat 

And  Other  Truthful  Tales 

By 
Charles  Battell  Loomis 

With  illustrations  by 
Florence  Scovel  Shinn 


Copyright,  1899,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


THE  DE  VINNE  PRESS. 


TO    MY    BROTHER 

HARVEY   WORTHINGTON   LOOMIS 
I   DEDICATE   THIS   COLLECTION 

OF   SKETCHES 

C.  B.  L. 


2072270 


Preface 

To  send  a  book  into  the  world  without 
a  preface  is  like  thrusting  a  bashful  man 
into  a  room  full  of  company  without  in- 
troducing him;  and  there  could  be  only 
one  thing  worse  than  that, — to  a  bashful 
man, — and  that  would  be  to  introduce 
him. 

In  introducing  my  book  to  the  reader 
(how  like  a  book-agent  that  sounds!)  I 
wish  to  say  that  the  only  bond  of  union 
between  the  various  sketches  is  that  they 
were  all  done  by  the  same  hand — or 
hands,  as  they  were  written  on  a  type- 
writer. 

Whether  it  would  have  added  to  their 
interest  to  have  placed  the  same  char- 
acters in  each  sketch  is  not  for  me  to 


x  PREFACE 

say,  but  it  would  have  been  a  great 
bother  to  do  it,  and  in  getting  up  a  book 
the  thing  to  avoid  is  bother.  It  has  n't 
bothered  me  to  write  it.  I  hope  it  won't 
bother  you  to  read  it,  for  I  'd  hate  to  have 
you  bothered  on  my  account. 

C.  B.  L. 


Contents 

A  FEW  IDIOTISMS 

PAGE 

I.  THE  FOUR-MASTED  CAT-BOAT       .        .  i 

II.  THE  POOR  WAS  MAD      ....  7 

III.  A  PECULIAR  INDUSTRY  10 

IV.  GRIGGS'S  MIND 14 

V.  THE  SIGNALS  OF  GRIGGS       .        .        .21 

VI.  A  LA  SHERLOCK  HOLMES       ...  25 

VII.  MY  SPANISH  PARROT     ....  30 

VIII.  "To  MEET  MR.  CAVENDISH"        .        .  35 

IX.  INSTINCT  SUPPLIED  TO  HENS        .        -41 

X.  A  SPRING  IDYL 46 

XI.  AN  INVERTED  SPRING  IDYL  ...  49 

XII.  AT  THE  CHESTNUTS'  DINNER        .        .  52 

XIII.  THE  ROUGH  WORDS  SOCIETY        .        .  57 

XIV.  A  NEW  USE  FOR  HORSES      ...  63 
XV.  A  CALCULATING  BORE    ....  67 

XVI.  AN  URBAN  GAME 71 

XVII.  "DE  GUSTIBUS" 75 

XVIII.    "BUFFUM'S   BUSTLESS   BUFFERS  "   .           .  79 

AT   THE  LITERARY   COUNTER 

XIX.  "THE  FATHER  OF  SANTA  CLAUS"        .  85 

XX.  THE  DIALECT  STORE      ....  92 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

XXI.  "FROM  THE  FRENCH"                     .     100 
XXII.  ON  THE  VALUE  OF  DOGMATIC  UTTER- 
ANCE        107 

XXIII.  THE  SAD  CASE  OF  DEACON  PERKINS    112 

XXIV.  THE  MISSING-WORD  BORE       .        .118 
XXV.  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CRITIC       .     122 

XXVI.  How  'RASMUS  PAID  THE  MORTGAGE    128 

XXVII.  'MIDST  ARMED  FOES        .        .        .137 

XXVIII.  AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CYGNET        .     141 

XXIX.  A  SCOTCH  SKETCH    .        .        .        .146 

UNRELATED   STORIES  — RELATED 
XXX.  EPHRATA  SYMONDS'S  DOUBLE  LIFE    153 
XXXI.  A  STRANGER  TO  LUCK     .        .        .161 
XXXII.  CUPID  ON  RUNNERS  .        .        .        .173 

XXXIII.  MY  TRUTHFUL  BURGLAR  .       .       .183 

XXXIV.  THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  WATCH        .     189 
XXXV.  THE  WRECK  OF  THE  "  CATAPULT  " .    201 

ESSAYS  AT  ESSAYS 

XXXVI.  THE  BULL,  THE  GIRL,  AND  THE  RED 

SHAWL 211 

XXXVII.  CONCERNING  DISH-WASHING    .       .    219 

XXXVIII.  A  PERENNIAL  FEVER        .        .        .225 

XXXIX.  "AMicus  REDIVIVUS"      .        .        .231 

XL.  THE  PROPER  CARE  OF  FLIES  .        .    236 

NOTE 

I  am  indebted  to  the  editors  of  the  "Century,"  the  "Saturday 
Evening  Post,"  "Harper's  Bazar,"  "Puck,"  the  "Critic,"  the 
"Criterion,"  and  the  S.  S.  McClure  Syndicate  for  permission  to  use  the 
articles  which  first  met  printers'  ink  in  their  columns.  C.  B.  L. 


A   FEW    IDIOTISMS 


THE   FOUR-MASTED   CAT-BOAT 

AN    ETCHING    OF   THE    SEA,   BY    A 
LANDLUBBER 

JHE  sea  lay  low  in  the  offing,  and 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  im- 
mense white-caps  rode  upon  it  as 
quietly  as  pond-lilies  on  the  bosom  of  a 
lake. 

Fleecy  clouds  dotted  the  sky,  and  far 
off  toward  the  horizon  a  full-rigged  four- 
masted  cat-boat  lugged  and  luffed  in  the 
calm  evening  breezes.  Her  sails  were 
piped  to  larboard,  starboard,  and  port; 
and  as  she  rolled  steadily  along  in  the 
heavy  wash  and  undertow,  her  companion- 
light,  already  kindled,  shed  a  delicate  ray 
across  the  bay  to  where  the  dull  red  disk 
of  the  sun  was  dipping  its  colors. 


2  THE   FOUR-MASTED   CAT-BOAT 

Her  cordage  lay  astern,  in  the  neat  coils 
that  seamen  know  so  well  how  to  make. 
The  anchor  had  been  weighed  this  half- 
hour,  and  the  figures  put  down  in  the  log; 
for  Captain  Bliffton  was  not  a  man  to  put 
off  doing  anything  that  lay  in  the  day's 
watch. 

Away  to  eastward,  two  tiny  black 
clouds  stole  along  as  if  they  were  diffident 
strangers  in  the  sky,  and  were  anxious  to 
be  gone.  Now  and  again  came  the  report 
of  some  sunset  gun  from  the  forts  that 
lined  the  coast,  and  sea-robins  flew  with 
harsh  cries  athwart  the  sloop  of  fishing- 
boats  that  were  beating  to  windward  with 
gaffed  topsails. 

"  Davy  Jones  '11  have  a  busy  day  to- 
morrow," growled  Tom  Bowsline,  the  first 
boatswain's  mate. 

"Meaning  them  clouds  is  windy?"  an- 
swered the  steward,  with  a  glance  to  lee- 
ward. 

"  The  same,"  answered  the  other,  shak- 
ing out  a  reef,  and  preparing  to  batten 
the  tarpaulins.  "  What  dinged  fools 
them  fellers  on  the  sloop  of  fishin'-ships 


THE   FOUR-MASTED   CAT-BOAT  3 

is!  They  've  got  their  studdin'sails 
gaffed  and  the  mizzentops  aft  of  the  gang- 
way; an'  if  I  know  a  marlinspike  from  a 
martingale,  we  're  goin'  to  have  as  pretty 
a  blow  as  ever  came  out  of  the  south." 

And,  indeed,  it  did  look  to  be  flying  in 
the  face  of  Providence,  for  the  mackerel- 
ships,  to  the  last  one,  were  tugging  and 
straining  to  catch  the  slightest  zephyr, 
with  their  yard-arms  close-hauled  and 
their  poop- decks  flush  with  the  fo'c'sle. 

The  form  of  the  captain  of  the  cat-boat 
was  now  visible  on  the  stairs  leading  to 
the  upper  deck.  It  needed  but  one  keen 
glance  in  the  direction  of  the  black  clouds 
— no  longer  strangers,  but  now  perfectly 
at  home  and  getting  ugly — to  determine 
his  course.  "  Unship  the  spinnaker-boom, 
you  dogs,  and  be  quick  about  it!  Luff, 
you  idiot,  luff!"  The  boatswain's  first 
mate  loved  nothing  better  than  to  luff,  and 
he  luffed ;  and  the  good  ship,  true  to  her 
keel,  bore  away  to  northward,  her  back 
scuppers  oozing  at  every  joint. 

"  That  was  ez  neat  a  bit  of  seamanship 
ez  I  ever  see,"  said  Tom  Bowsline,  taking 


4  THE   FOUR-MASTED   CAT-BOAT 

a  huge  bite  of  oakum.  "  Shiver  my  tim- 
bers! if  my  rivets  don't  tremble  with  joy 
when  I  see  good  work." 

"  Douse  your  gab,  and  man  the  taff- 
rail!  "  yelled  the  captain;  and  Tom  flew 
to  obey  him.  "Light  the  top-lights!" 


A  couple  of  sailors  to  whom  the  trick  is 
a  mere  bagatelle  run  nimbly  out  on  the 
stern-sprit  and  execute  his  order;  and 
none  too  soon,  for  darkness  is  closing  in 
over  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  the  clouds 
come  on  apace. 

A  rumble  of   thunder,   followed  by  a 


THE   FOUR-MASTED   CAT-BOAT  5 

blinding  flash,  betokens  that  the  squall  is 
at  hand.  The  captain  springs  adown  the 
poop,  and  in  a  hoarse  voice  yells  out : 
"  Lower  the  maintop ;  loosen  the  shrouds ; 
luff  a  little — steady !  Cut  the  main-brace, 
and  clear  away  the  halyards.  If  we  don't 
look  alive,  we  '11  look  pretty  durn  dead 
in  two  shakes  of  a  capstan-bar.  All  hands 
abaft  for  a  glass  of  grog." 

The  wild  rush  of  sailors'  feet,  the  creak- 
ing of  ropes,  the  curses  of  those  in  the 
rear,  together  with  the  hoarse  cries  of  the 
gulls  and  the  booming  of  the  thunder, 
made  up  a  scene  that  beggars  description. 
Every  trough  of  the  sea  was  followed  by 
a  crest  as  formidable,  and  the  salt  spray 
had  an  indescribable  brackish  taste  like 
bilge-water  and  ginger-ale. 

After  the  crew  had  finished  their  grog 
they  had  time  to  look  to  starboard  of  the 
port  watch,  and  there  they  beheld  what 
filled  them  with  pity.  The  entire  sloop 
of  mackerel-ships  lay  with  their  keels  up. 

"  I  knowed  they  'd  catch  it  if  they 
gaffed  their  studdin'sails,"  said  Tom,  as 
he  shifted  the  quid  of  oakum. 


6  THE  FOUR-MASTED   CAT-BOAT 

The  full  moon  rose  suddenly  at  the  ex- 
act spot  where  the  sun  had  set.  The 
thunder  made  off,  muttering.  The  cat- 
boat,  close-rigged  from  hand-rail  to  taff- 
rail,  scudded  under  bare  poles,  with  the 
churning  motion  peculiar  to  pinnaces,  and 
the  crew  involuntarily  broke  into  the 
chorus  of  that  good  old  sea-song: 

The  wind  blows  fresh,  and  our  scuppers  are  astern. 


II 

THE   POOR  WAS   MAD 

A   FAIRY    SHTORY    FOR    LITTLE 
CHILDHER 


upon  a  toime  the  poor  was 
virry  poor  indade,  an'  so  they 
wint  to  a  rich  leddy  that  was 
that  rich  that  she  had  goold  finger-nails, 
an'  was  that  beautifil  that  it  'u'd  mek  you 
dopey  to  luke  at  her.  An'  the  poor  asht 
her  would  she  give  thim  the  parin's  of  her 
goold  finger-nails  fer  to  sell.  An'  she 
said  she  would  that,  an'  that  ivery 
Chuesdeh  she  did  be  afther  a-parin'  her 
nails.  So  of  a  Chuesdeh  the  poor  kem  an' 
they  tuke  the  goold  parin's  to  a  jewel-ery 
man,  an'  he  gev  thim  good  money  fer 
thim.  Was  n't  she  the  koind  leddy, 
childher?  Well,  wan  day  she  forgot  to 
7 


8  THE   POOR  WAS   MAD 

pare  her  nails,  an'  so  they  had  nothin'  to 
sell.  An'  the  poor  was  mad,  an'  they  wint 
an'  kilt  the  leddy  intoirely.  An'  whin  she 
was  kilt,  sorra  bit  would  the  nails  grow 
upon  her,  an'  they  saw  they  was  silly  to 
kill  her.  So  they  wint  out  to  sairch  fer  a 
leddy  wid  silver  finger-nails.  An'  they 
found  her,  an'  she  was  that  beautifil  that 
her  face  was  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow 
an'  two  more  besides.  An'  the  poor  asht 
her  would  she  give  thim  the  parin's  of  her 
silver  finger-nails  fer  to  sell.  An'  she  said 
that  she  would  that,  an'  that  ivery 
Chuesdeh  she  did  be  afther  a-parin'  her 
nails.  So  of  a  Chuesdeh  the  poor  kem  an' 
they  tuke  the  silver  parin's  to  the  jewel-ery 
man,  an'  he  gev  thim  pretty  good  money 
fer  thim,  but  not  nair  as  good  as  fer  the 
goold.  But  he  was  the  cute  jewel-ery 
man,  was  n't  he,  childher?  Well,  wan  day 
she  forgot  to  pare  her  nails,  an'  so  they 
had  nothin'  to  sell.  An'  the  poor  was 
mad,  an'  they  wint  an'  kilt  the  leddy  in- 
toirely. An'  whin  she  was  kilt,  sorra  bit 
would  the  nails  grow  upon  her,  an'  they 
saw  they  was  silly  to  kill  her.  So  they 


THE   POOR  WAS   MAD  9 

\vint  out  to  sairch  for  a  leddy  wid  tin 
finger-nails.  An'  they  found  her,  an'  she 
was  that  beautifil  that  she  would  mek  you 
ristless.  An'  the  poor  asht  her  would  she 
give  thim  the  parin's  of  her  tin  finger-nails 
fer  to  sell.  An'  she  said  she  would  that, 


an'  that  ivery  Chuesdeh  she  did  be  afther 
a-parin'  her  nails.  So  of  a  Chuesdeh  the 
poor  kem.  An'  did  they  git  the  tin  nails, 
childher?  Sure,  that  's  where  y'  are  out. 
They  did  not,  fer  the  leddy  had  lost  a 
finger  in  a  mowin'-machine,  an'  she  did  n't 
have  tin  finger-nails  at  arl,  at  arl— only 
noine. 


Ill 

A  PECULIAR  INDUSTRY 


HE  sign  in  front  of  the  dingy  little 
office  on  a  side-street,  through 
which  I  was  walking,  read: 


JO    COSE    AND    JOCK    EWLAH 
FUNSMITHS 

Being  of  an  inquisitive  turn  of  mind,  I 
went  in.  A  little  dried-up  man,  who  in- 
troduced himself  as  Mr.  Cose,  greeted  me 
cheerily.  He  said  that  Mr.  Ewlah  was 
out  at  lunch,  but  he  'd  be  pleased  to  do 
what  he  could  for  me. 

"What  is  the  nature  of  your  calling?" 
asked  I. 

"  It  is  you  who  are  calling,"  said  he, 
averting  his  eyes.  Then  he  assumed  the 
voice  and  manner  of  a  "  lecturer "  in  a 


A   PECULIAR   INDUSTRY  n 

dime  museum,  and  rattled  along  as 
follows : 

"  We  are  in  the  joke  business.  Original 
and  second-hand  jokes  bought  and  sold. 
Old  jokes  made  over  as  good  as  new. 
Good  old  stand-bys  altered  to  suit  the 
times.  Jokes  cleaned  and  made  ready  for 
the  press.  We  do  not  press  them  our- 
selves. Joke  expanders  for  sale  cheap. 
Also  patent  padders  for  stories — " 

I  interrupted  the  flow  of  his  talk  to  ask 
him  if  there  was  much  demand  for  the 
padders. 

"  Young  man,"  said  he,  "  do  you  keep 
up  with  current  literature?" 

Then  he  went  over  to  a  shelf  on  which 
stood  a  long  line  of  bottles  of  the  size  of 
cod-liver-oil  bottles,  and  taking  one  down, 
he  said :  "  Now,  here  is  Jokoleine,  of  which 
we  are  the  sole  agents.  This  will  make  a 
poor  joke  salable,  and  is  in  pretty  general 
use  in  the  city,  although  some  editors  will 
not  buy  a  joke  that  smells  of  it." 

I  noticed  a  tall,  black-haired,  Svengalic- 
looking  person  in  an  inner  room,  and  I 
asked  Mr.  Cose  who  he  was. 


12  A   PECULIAR   INDUSTRY 

"  That  is  our  hypnotizer.  The  most 
callous  editors  succumb  to  his  gaze.  Take 
him  with  you  when  you  have  anything  to 
sell.  We  rent  him  at  a  low  figure,  consid- 
ering how  useful  he  is.  He 
has  had  a  busy  season,  and 
is  tired  out,  but  that  is  what 
we  pay  him  for.  If  he  were 
to  die  you  'd  notice  a  dif- 
ference in  many  of  the  peri- 
odicals. The  poorer  the 
material,  the  better  pleased 
he  is  to  place  it.  It  flat- 
ters his  vanity." 

I  assured  him  that  I  was 
something  of  a  hypnotist  myself,  and, 
thanking  him  for  his  courtesy,  was  about 
to  come  away,  when  he  picked  up  what 
looked  like  a  box  of  tacks  and  said : 

"  Here  are  points  for  pointless  jokes. 
We  don't  have  much  sale  for  them.  Most 
persons  prefer  an  application  of  Jokoleine. 
A  recent  issue  of  a  comic  weekly  had  sixty 
jokes  and  but  one  point,  showing  con- 
clusively that  points  are  out  of  fashion  in 
some  editorial  rooms. 


A   PECULIAR  INDUSTRY  13 

"  A  man  came  in  yesterday,"  rattled  on 
the  senior  member,  "  and  asked  if  we 
bought  hand-made  jokes,  and  before  we 
could  stop  him  he  said  that  by  hand-made 
jokes  he  meant  jokes  about  servant-girls. 
We  gave  him  the  address  of  '  Punch.' ' 

At  this  point  I  shook  hands  with  Mr. 
Cose,  and  as  I  left  he  was  saying :  "  For 
a  suitable  consideration  we  will  guarantee 
to  call  anything  a  joke  that  you  may  bring 
in,  and  we  will  place  it  without  hypnotic 
aid  or  the  use  of  Jokoleine.  It  has  been 
done  before." 

And  as  I  came  away  from  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  I  reflected  that  it  had. 


IV 
GRIGGS'S   MIND 

HE  other  day  I  met  Griggs  on  the 
cars.  Griggs  is  the  man  with 
the  mind.  Other  people  have 
minds,  but  they  're  not  like  Griggs's.  He 
lives  in  Rutherford,  New  Jersey,  and  is, 
like  me,  a  commuter,  and  as  neither  of 
us  plays  cards  nor  is  interested  in  politics, 
and  as  we  have  tabooed  the  weather  as  a 
topic,  it  almost  always  happens  that  when 
we  meet,  we,  or  rather  he,  falls  back  on 
his  mind  as  subject  for  conversation.  For 
my  part,  my  daily  newspaper  would  be 
all-sufficient  for  my  needs  on  the  way  to 
town ;  but  it  pleases  Griggs  to  talk,  and 
it  's  bad  for  my  eyes  to  read  on  the  cars, 
so  I  shut  them  up  and  cultivate  the  art  of 
listening,  the  while  Griggs  discourses. 


GRIGGS'S   MIND  15 

I  had  recently  read  in  the  Contributors' 
Club  of  the  "Atlantic,"  an  article  by  a 
woman,  who  said  that  the  letters  of  the 
alphabet  seemed  to  be  variously  colored 
in  her  mind;  that  is,  her  mental  picture 
gave  to  one  letter  a  green  hue,  to  another 
red,  and  so  on.  I  spoke  of  this  to  Griggs, 
and  he  was  much  interested.  He  said 
that  the  sound  of  a  cornet  was  always  red 
to  him.  I  asked  him  whether  it  made  any 
difference  who  blew  it,  but  Griggs  scorns 
to  notice  puns,  and  he  answered :  "  Not  a 
particle.  I  don't  pretend  to  explain  it, 
but  it  is  so.  Likewise,  to  me  the  color 
of  scarlet  tastes  salt,  while  crimson  is 
sweet." 

I  opened  my  eyes  and  looked  at  him  in 
amazement.  It  sounded  like  a  bit  out  of 
"  Alice  in  Wonderland."  Then  I  remem- 
bered that  it  was  Griggs  who  was  talking, 
and  that  he  has  a  mind.  When  I  don't  un- 
derstand something  about  Griggs,  I  lay  it  to 
his  mind  and  think  no  more  about  it.  So 
I  shut  my  eyes  again  and  listened. 

"By  the  way,"  said  he,  "how  does 
time  run  in  your  mind?" 


16  GRIGGS'S   MIND 

"  Why,  I  never  thought  of  its  running 
at  all,  although  it  passes  quickly  enough, 
for  the  most  part!  " 

"  But  has  n't  it  some  general  direction? 
Up  or  down,  north  or  south,  east  or 
west?" 

"  Griggs,"  said  I,  "  is  this  your  mind?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  he. 

"Well,  go  ahead;  fire  it  off;  unfold 
your  kinks!  "  said  I,  leaning  back  in  my 
seat;  "but  kindly  remember  that  I  have 
no  mind,  and  if  you  can't  put  it  in  words 
of  one  syllable,  talk  slowly  so  that  I  can 
follow  you." 

He  promised  to  put  it  as  plainly  as 
though  he  were  talking  to  his  youngest, 
aged  three ;  and,  with  this  assurance,  my 
cerebrum  braced  itself,  so  to  speak,  and 
awaited  the  onslaught. 

"  My  idea  of  the  direction  of  time  in  all 
its  divisions  and  subdivisions  is  as  fol- 
lows—" 

"  Say,  Griggs,"  said  I,  "  let  's  go  into 
the  smoker.  A  little  oil  of  nicotine  al- 
ways makes  my  brain  work  easier." 

When  we  were  seated  in  the  smoker, 


GRIGGS'S   MIND  17 

and  had  each  lighted  a  cigar,  he  went 
on: 

"  Assuming  that  I  am  facing  the  north, 
far  in  the  southwest  is  the  Garden  of  Eden 
and  the  early  years  of  recorded  time. 
Moving  eastward  run  the  centuries,  and 
the  years  to  come  and  the  end  of  the 
world  are  in  the  far  east." 

I  felt  slightly  bewizzled,  but  I  gripped 
the  seat  in  front  of  me  and  said  nothing. 

"  My  mental  picture  of  the  months  of 
the  year  is  that  January  is  far  to  the  north. 
The  months  follow  in  a  more  or  less 
zigzag,  easterly  movement,  until  we  find 
that  July  and  August  have  strayed  far 
south.  But  the  autumn  months  zigzag 
back,  so  that  by  the  time  December 
sweeps  coldly  by  she  is  twelve  months 
east  of  January,  and  then  the  new  Janu- 
ary starts  on  a  road  of  similar  direction. 
You  still  observe  that  the  current  of  time 
sets  toward  me  instead  of  away  from 
me." 

What  could  I  do  but  observe  that  it  did  ? 
I  had  the  inside  seat,  and  Griggs  has  an 
insistent  way  about  him,  so  I  generally 


i8 


GRIGGS'S   MIND 


observe  just  when  he  asks  me  to,  and  thus 
avoid  friction.  Then,  too,  I  always  feel 
flattered  when  Griggs  condescends  to  talk 
at  me  and  reveal  the  wonders  of  his  mind. 
So  I  observed  heartily,  and  puffed  away 
at  my  cigar,  while  he  continued : 


"  The  direction  of  the  week-days  is 
rather  hazy  in  my  mind — " 

I  begged  him  not  to  feel  low-spirited 
about  it — that  it  would  probably  seem 
clear  to  him  before  long;  but  I  don't  think 
he  heard  me,  for  he  went  right  on :  "  But 


GRIGGS'S   MIND  19 

it  is  a  somewhat  undulatory  movement 
from  west  to  east,  Sundays  being  on  the 
crest  of  each  wave.  Coming  to  the  hours, 
I  picture  them  as  running,  like  the  famous 
mouse,  '  down  the  clock,'  the  early  day- 
light being  highest.  The  minutes  and 
seconds  refuse  to  be  marshaled  into  line, 
but  go  ticking  on  to  eternity  helter-skel- 
ter, yet  none  the  less  inevitably." 

I  rather  admired  the  independence  of 
the  minutes  and  seconds  in  refusing  to  be 
ordered  about  even  by  his  mind;  but,  of 
course,  I  did  n't  tell  him  so.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  congratulated  him  on  the  highly 
poetic  way  in  which  he  was  voicing  his 
sentiments. 

Just  then  we  came  into  the  station,  and 
an  acquaintance  of  his  buttonholed  him 
and  lugged  him  off,  for  Griggs  is  quite  a 
favorite,  in  spite  of  his  mind.  I  was  sorry, 
for  I  had  wanted  to  ask  him  where  the  mo- 
ments and  instants  seem  bound  for  in  his 
brain.  I  did  manage,  just  as  we  were 
leaving  the  boat  at  Chambers  Street,  to 
tell  him  that  I  was  going  to  be  in  the 
Augustan  part  of  the  city  at  noon,  and 


20  GRIGGS'S   MIND 

would  be  pleased  to  take  him  out  to  lunch, 
if  he  ran  across  me;  but  he  must  have 
mistaken  the  month,  as  I  ate  my  luncheon 
alone.  I  dare  say  he  understood  me  to 
say  January,  and  wandered  all  over  Har- 
lem looking  for  me.  How  unpleasant  it 
must  be  to  have  a  mind ! 


V 
THE   SIGNALS   OF   GRIGGS 

|OU  may  remember  Griggs  as  the 
man  who  had  a  mind.  At  the 
time  that  I  wrote  about  that  use- 
ful member  of  his  make-up  he  was  living 
out  in  New  Jersey;  but  he  was  finally 
brought  to  see  the  error  of  his  ways,  and 
took  the  top  flat  in  a  nine-story  house 
without  an  elevator,  'way  up-town. 

The  other  evening  I  went  to  call  on 
the  Griggses.  He  had  not  yet  come  home, 
but  his  wife  let  me  in  and  helped  me  to 
a  sofa  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  my 
climb.  I  have  been  up  the  Matterhorn, 
Mont  Blanc,  and  Popocatepetl,  but  I  never 
felt  so  exhausted  as  I  did  after  walking  up 
those  nine  frightful  flights.  And  Mrs. 
Griggs  told  me  that  she  thought  nothing 


22  THE   SIGNALS  OF  GRIGGS 

of  running  up-  and  down-stairs  a  dozen 
times  a  day,  which  was  a  sad  commentary 
on  her  truthfulness. 

After  I  was  there  a  few  minutes,  trying 
to  get  used  to  the  notes  of  two  lusty  and 
country-bred  children  (offspring  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Griggs),  there  came  a  feeble  and 
dejected  ring  at  the  front-door  bell.  Mrs. 
Griggs  hastened  to  the  kitchen, — they  do 
not  keep  a  servant  (that  was  their  trouble 
in  New  Jersey,  but  now  they  don't  want 
to), — and  after  pressing  the  electric  button 
that  opened  the  front  door,  she  said: 
"  That  's  poor  Mr.  Griggs.  He  must  be 
feeling  bad  to-night,  and  I  must  put  the 
children  to  bed  before  he  gets  up,  as  he  is 
too  nervous  to  stand  their  noise." 

I  was  somewhat  astonished,  but  she 
ripped  the  clothes  off  of  her  buds  of 
promise  and  popped  them  into  bed  with 
a  skill  and  rapidity  that  would  have  se- 
cured her  a  position  on  the  vaudeville 
stage.  After  they  were  covered  up  she 
returned  to  me.  Of  course  Mr.  Griggs 
had  not  yet  arrived,  and  I  asked  her  how 
she  knew  he  was  tired. 


THE   SIGNALS   OF  GRIGGS  23 

"  Why,  we  have  a  code  of  signals.  Mr. 
Griggs  invented  them.  When  he  has 
done  well  down-town,  he  taps  out  a  merry 


peal  on  the  bell,  and  then  I  tell  the  chil- 
dren to  greet  him  at  the  hall  door  and 
prepare  for  a  romp.  When  the  bell  rings 
sharply  I  know  that  he  is  in  no  humor  for 
fun,  but  will  tolerate  the  children  if  they 


24  THE   SIGNALS  OF  GRIGGS 

are  quiet.  But  when  he  rings  slowly  and 
faintly,  as  he  did  to-night,  I  always  put 
the  dears  to  bed,  as  I  know  he  has  had 
bad  luck  and  is  worn  out." 

As  she  spoke,  Griggs  opened  the  hall 
door  and  staggered  in,  weak  from  his 
superhuman  climb  and  worn  out  from  his 
day's  work.  I  said :  "  Good-by,  old  man  ; 
I  '11  call  some  day  when  you  're  going  to 
give  the  bell  the  glad  hand.  You  seem 
cozily  situated."  And  then  I  came  down 
in  the  dumb-waiter,  although  I  suppose  it 
was  risky. 

What  a  great  thing  is  an  electric  bell! 
But  how  much  greater  is  an  inventive 
mind  like  that  of  Griggs. 


VI 

A   LA   SHERLOCK   HOLMES 

ONES  and  I  recently  had  occasion 
to  take  a  drive  of  four  or  five 
miles  in  upper  Connecticut.  We 
were  met  at  the  station  by  Farmer  Phelps, 
who  soon  had  us  snugly  wrapped  in  robes 
and  speeding  over  the  frozen  highway  in 
a  sleigh.  It  was  bitter  cold  weather — the 
thermometer  reading  3°  above  zero.  We 
had  come  up  from  Philadelphia,  and  to  us 
such  extreme  cold  was  a  novelty,  which 
is  all  we  could  say  for  it. 

As  we  rode  along,  Jones  fell  to  talking 
about  Conan  Doyle's  detective  stories,  of 
which  we  were  both  great  admirers — the 
more  so  as  Doyle  has  declared  Philadel- 
phia to  be  the  greatest  American  city.  It 
turned  out  that  Mr.  Phelps  was  familiar  with 
25 


26  A  LA   SHERLOCK   HOLMES 

the  "  '  Meemoirs '  of  Sherlock  Holmes," 
and  he  thought  there  was  some  "  pretty 
slick  reasonin' "  in  it.  "  My  girl,"  said 
he,  "  got  the  book  out  er  the  library  an' 
read  it  aout  laoud  to  my  woman  an'  me. 
But  of  course  this  Doyle  had  it  all  cut  an' 
dried  afore  he  writ  it.  He  worked  back- 
wards an'  kivered  up  his  tracks,  an'  then 
started  afresh,  an'  it  seems  more  wonderful 
to  the  reader  than  it  reely  is." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jones;  "I  've 
done  a  little  in  the  observation  line  since  I 
began  to  read  him,  and  it  's  astonishing 
how  much  a  man  can  learn  from  inanimate 
objects,  if  he  uses  his  eyes  and  his  brain 
to  good  purpose.  I  rarely  make  a  mis- 
take." 

Just  then  we  drove  past  an  outbuilding. 
The  door  of  it  was  shut.  In  front  of  it, 
in  a  straight  row  and  equidistant  from 
each  other,  lay  seven  cakes  of  ice,  thawed 
out  of  a  water-pan. 

"  "There,"  said  Jones;  "what  do  we  gather 
from  those  seven  cakes  of  ice  and  that 
closed  door?" 

I  gave  it  up. 


A  LA   SHERLOCK  HOLMES  27 

Mr.  Phelps  said  nothing. 

Jones  waited  impressively  a  moment, 
and  then  said  quite  glibly :  "  The  man 
who  lives  there  keeps  a  flock  of  twelve 
hens — not  Leghorns,  but  probably  Ply- 
mouth Rocks  or  some  Asiatic  variety.  He 
attends  to  them  himself,  and  has  good  suc- 
cess with  them,  although  this  is  the  seventh 
day  of  extremely  cold  weather." 

I  gazed  at  him  in  admiration. 

Mr.  Phelps  said  nothing. 

"  How  do  you  make  it  all  out,  Jones?" 
said  I. 

"  Well,  those  cakes  of  ice  were  evidently 
formed  in  a  hens'  drinking-pan.  They 
are  solid.  The  water  froze  a  little  all  day 
long,  and  froze  solid  in  the  night.  It  was 
thawed  out  in  the  morning  and  left  lying 
there,  and  the  pan  was  refilled.  There 
are  seven  cakes  of  ice ;  therefore  there  has 
been  a  week  of  very  cold  weather.  They 
are  side  by  side :  from  this  we  gather 
that  it  was  a  methodical  man  who  at- 
tended to  them  ;  evidently  no  hireling,  but 
the  goodman  himself.  Methodical  in  little 
things,  methodical  in  greater  ones;  and 


28 


A  LA   SHERLOCK   HOLMES 


method  spells  success  with  hens.  The  thick- 
ness of  the  ice  also  proves  that  compara- 
tively little  water  was  drunk ;  consequently 
he  keeps  a  small  flock.  Twelve  is  the  model 
number  among  advanced  poultrymen,  and 

he  is  evidently  one. 
Then,  the  clearness 
of  the  ice  shows 
that  the  hens  are 
not  excitable  Leg- 
horns, but  fowl  of  a 
more  sluggish  kind, 
although  whether 
Plymouth  Rocks  or 
Brahmas  or  Langshans,  I  can't  say.  Leg- 
horns are  so  wild  that  they  are  apt  to  stam- 
pede through  the  water  and  roil  it.  The 
closed  door  shows  he  has  the  good  sense 
to  keep  them  shut  up  in  cold  weather. 

"  To  sum  up,  then,  this  wide-awake  poul- 
tryman  has  had  wonderful  success,  in  spite 
of  a  week  of  exceptionally  cold  weather, 
from  his  flock  of  a  dozen  hens  of  some 
large  breed.  How  's  that,  Mr.  Phelps? 
Is  n't  it  almost  equal  to  Doyle?" 

"  Yes ;   but  not  accordin'  to  Hoyle,  ez 


A  LA   SHERLOCK   HOLMES  29 

ye  might  say,"  said  he.  "Your  reasonin' 
is  good,  but  it  ain't  quite  borne  aout  by 
the  fac's.  In  the  fust  place,  this  is  the  fust 
reel  cold  day  we  've  hed  this  winter. 
Secon'ly,  they  ain't  no  boss  to  the  place, 
fer  she  's  a  woman.  Thirdly,  my  haouse 
is  the  nex'  one  to  this,  an'  my  boy  an' 
hers  hez  be'n  makin'  those  ice-cakes  fer 
fun  in  some  old  cream-pans.  Don't  take 
long  to  freeze  solid  in  this  weather.  An', 
las'ly,  it  ain't  a  hen-haouse,  but  an  ice- 
haouse." 

The  sun  rode  with  unusual  quietness 
through  the  heavens.  We  heard  no  song 
of  bird.  The  winds  were  whist.  All  na- 
ture was  silent. 

So  was  Jones. 


VII 
MY   SPANISH    PARROT 

HAVE  two  maiden  aunts  living 
down  in  Maine,  on  the  edge  of  the 
woods.  Their  father  was  a  deaf- 
and-dumb  woodsman,  and  their  mother 
died  when  they  were  small,  and  they  hardly 
see  a  soul  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other. 
The  consequence  is,  they  're  the  simplest, 
dearest  old  creatures  one  ever  saw.  They 
don't  know  what  evil  means.  They  pass 
their  days  knitting  and  working  in  their 
garden.  The  quarterly  visits  of  the  itiner- 
ant preacher  who  deals  out  the  gospel  in 
that  region,  and  my  occasional  trips  up 
there,  constitute  the  only  chances  they 
have  of  mingling  with  the  outside  world, 
and  they  're  as  happy  and  unsophisticated 
as  birds. 

30 


MY   SPANISH    PARROT  31 

A  year  ago  I  took  up  a  parrot  that  I  'd 
bought  of  a  sailor.  The  bird  had  a  cold 
when  I  got  it,  and  was  n't  saying  a  word ; 
but  the  sailor  vouched  for  its  character, 
and  I  thought  it  would  be  a  novelty  and 
company  for  the  old  ladies,  so  I  took  it 
along.  They  'd  never  seen  a  parrot  be- 
fore, and  they  could  n't  thank  me  enough. 
I  told  them  that  when  it  got  over  its  cold 
it  would  talk ;  and  then  it  occurred  to  me 
that  as  the  sailor  of  which  I  bought  it  was 
a  Spaniard,  the  bird  would  be  likely  to 
speak  that  tongue.  "  So  you  '11  be  able 
to  learn  Spanish,"  said  I ;  and  they  were 
mightily  pleased  at  the  notion. 

In  about  two  months  I  received  a  letter 
from  Aunt  Linda,  saying  that  the  bird 
was  the  greatest  company  in  the  world, 
and  they  did  n't  know  what  they  'd  do 
without  him.  "  And,"  wrote  my  aunt, 
"  the  bird  is  a  great  talker  of  Spanish,  and 
we  have  learned  much  of  that  strange 
tongue." 

I  was  amused  at  the  idea  of  those 
maiden  aunts  of  mine  talking  Spanish,  and 
the  next  week,  being  in  the  vicinity,  I 


32  MY  SPANISH   PARROT 

took  the  stage  over  to  where  they  live, 
about  fifteen  miles  from  any  railroad. 

They  saw  me  alight,  and  came  out  to 
meet  me — two  pretty,  sweet,  prim-looking 
old  ladies.  I  kissed  them  both  heartily,  and 
then  Aunt  Linda  said,  in  her  gentle  voice : 
"  I  'm  so  glad  you  've  come,  you  dear  old 
blankety-blank  blank  blank  boy.  That  's 
Spanish." 

I  nearly  fell  off  my  perch,  but  I  man- 
aged to  keep  a  straight  face,  and  then 
dear  Aunt  Jane  said  softly  and  proudly: 
"  Why  the  blankety-blank  blank  don't  you 
come  to  see  us  oftener,  you  blankety- 
blank  blank  boy  ?  " 

It  made  my  blood  run  cold  to  hear  the 
oaths  those  innocent  creatures  poured  out 
on  me  all  day.  The  parrot  followed  me 
around,  and  perked  his-  head  on  one  side, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  Are  n't  they  apt 
pupils?"  but  he  never  opened  his  mouth 
to  talk — and  there  really  was  n't  any  need. 
They  kept  me  supplied  with  conversation 
on  their  quiet  doings,  all  interlarded  with 
their  new-found  "  Spanish,"  until  it  was 
time  to  go  to  bed. 


MY    SPANISH    PARROT 


33 


I  had  n't  the  heart  to  tell  them  that  the 
tongue  in  which  they  were  so  fluent  was 
not  Spanish ;  and  as  their  hearts  were  as 
pure  as  a  baby's,  and  they  saw  no  one,  I 
said  nothing;  but  when  I  left,  early  next 
morning,  I  was  careful  to  bid  them  good- 


by  out  of  ear-shot  of  the  stage-coach,  and 
it  's  lucky  I  did,  for  the  torrent  of  billings- 
gate that  they  poured  fondly  over  me 
would  have  caused  the  occupants  of  the 
coach  to  think  entirely  unwarranted  things 
of  the  old  ladies. 

As  I  climbed  up  to  the  seat  by  the  driver, 

3 


34  MY    SPANISH    PARROT 

a  man  got  out  of  the  stage  and  walked 
up  to  the  house. 

"  Good  heavens!  who  's  that?"  I  asked 
of  the  driver. 

"Thet,"  said  he,  "is  the  Methody 
preacher  makin'  his  quarterly  visit  to  th' 
old  ladies." 


VIII 
TO    MEET   MR.    CAVENDISH" 

HE  card  read,  "  To  meet  Mr. 
Cavendish."  I  had  not  been  in 
Boston  long,  and  I  must  confess 
to  a  poor  head  for  names,  so  I  had  no  idea 
who  Mr.  Cavendish  was  or  what  he  had 
done,  but  as  he  was  to  be  at  Mrs.  Emer- 
son's, I  knew  he  had  done  something. 

There  were  only  five  guests  there,  be- 
sides Mr.  Cavendish,  when  I  arrived,  and 
after  we  were  introduced  it  so  happened 
that  Cavendish  and  I  found  ourselves  talk- 
ing together. 

He  looked  tired,  so  I  said  as  a  starter: 
"  Don't  you  find  your  work  exhausting?" 
I  thought  I  'd  play  "  twenty  questions  " 
with  him,  and  determine  what  he  had 
done. 

35 


36  "TO   MEET   MR.   CAVENDISH" 

"  Sometimes  it  is,  very.  The  expendi- 
ture of  force  fairly  makes  my  throat 
ache." 

It  was  easy.  He  was  probably  a  Wag- 
nerian  singer. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  to  be  very  careful 
about  your  throat." 

"Why,  no,"  he  said;  "I  never  think 
about  my  throat." 

He  was  n't  a  singer. 

"  Well,  you  're  in  love  with  your  art." 

He  smiled.     "  Yes,  I  'm  in  love  with  it." 

I  was  in  despair.     What  was  he  ? 

But  now  I  would  nail  him.  "  What  are 
your  methods  of  work,  Mr.  Cavendish  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  spend  much  time  in  over- 
elaboration.  My  brush-strokes  are  very 
broad." 

Ah,  a  painter!  "Exactly,"  I  said. 
"  You  like  a  free  hand." 

He  said  :  "  After  all,  the  words  are  every- 
thing." 

Ah,  a  writer!  "Yes,"  said  I;  "your 
words  are  everything  to  the  public." 

"  I  hope  so.  I  try  to  make  them  so," 
he  said  modestly. 


"TO   MEET   MR.   CAVENDISH"  37 

Now  I  felt  easier,  and  proceeded  to 
praise  him  specifically. 

"Which  do  you  like  best — to  make 
your  public  laugh  or  cry?  or  do  you  aim 
to  instruct  it?  " 

"  It  is  easy  to  make  persons  laugh,  so  I 
suppose  I  like  rather  to  bring  them  to 
tears.  As  for  instruction,  there  are  those 
who  say  it  is  not  our  province  to  in- 
struct." 

"  But  you  do  all  three,  Mr.  Cavendish." 

He  bowed  as  if  he  thought  I  had  hit 
it. 

I  said :  "  To  those  who  are  familiar  with 
your  work  there  is  something  that  makes 
you  just  the  man  to  pick  up  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour." 

His  blank  expression  showed  that  I  had 
made  some  mistake.  He  is  a  tall,  portly 
man,  and  he  seemed  alarmed  at  the  pros- 
pect of  being  picked  up.  A  fall  would  be 
serious. 

"  I  don't  quite  get  your  meaning,  but  I 
suppose  you  refer  to  the  men  about  town 
who  stray  in  for  a  few  minutes." 

It  seemed  a  queer  way  to  express  it, 

3* 


38  "TO   MEET   MR.  CAVENDISH" 

but  I  replied :  "  Oh,  yes ;  just  to  browse. 
You  repay  browsing,  Mr.  Cavendish." 

He    smiled    reminiscently.     "  Speaking 
of  browsing,  when  I  was  told  to  go  ahead 


on  Richelieu,  I  browsed  a  long  time  in  the 
British  Museum  getting  up  data." 

What,  a  painter,  after  all?  I  forgot  all 
else  he  had  said,  and  told  him  I  thought 
he  was  as  happy  as  Sargent  or  Whistler. 

"Yes;  I  don't  let  little  things  worry  me 


"TO    MEET   MR.   CAVENDISH"  39 

much.  Sometimes  the  paint  gives  out  at 
a  critical  time  in  a  small  town." 

Good  heaven!  Why  should  the  paint 
give  out  in  a  small  town  at  a  critical  time  ? 
Was  he  a  painter,  after  all  ?  Could  he  be 
a  traveling  sign-painter? 

"  Does  it  bother  you  to  work  up  in  the 
air?" 

"  That  's  an  original  way  of  putting  it," 
said  he,  with  a  genial  laugh.  "  To  play  to 
the  grand  stand,  as  it  were.  Oh,  no ;  a 
man  must  do  more  or  less  of  that  to  suc- 
ceed." 

I  was  shocked.  "  You  surely  don't 
believe  in  desecrating  nature!  Sermons 
in  stones,  if  you  will,  but  not  sermons  on 
stones.  You  would  n't  letter  the  Palisades 
if  you  had  a  chance,  would  you  ?  " 

He  edged  away  from  me,  and  said : 
"  Oh,  no,  I  would  n't  letter  the  Palisades, 
although  I  dare  say  my  man  of  affairs 
would  be  glad  to." 

Then  I  gave  up.  His  man  of  affairs! 
He  must  be  a  gentleman  of  leisure  to 
have  a  man  of  affairs. 

And  then  up  came  Ticknor  Fields,  the 


40  "TO   MEET   MR.   CAVENDISH" 

dramatic  critic,  and  said :  "  How  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Cavendish  ?  Let  me  congratulate 
you  upon  your  success  as  Richelieu.  At 
last  a  successor  to  Booth  has  been  found." 
I  went  and  drank  a  glass  of  iced  water. 
My  throat  was  dry. 


IX 

INSTINCT   SUPPLIED   TO    HENS 

COMPANY  has  just  been  formed 
in  New  Jersey  for  the  purpose  of 
supplying  instinct  to  hens.  Such 
well-known  farmers  as  Frank  R.  Stockton, 
Russell  Sage,  and  Bishop  Potter  are  stock- 
holders in  it,  and  if  filling  a  long-felt  want 
is  all  that  is  needed,  the  success  of  the 
company  is  already  assured. 

No  one  who  has  ever  dabbled  in  hens 
needs  to  be  told  that  the  gallinaceous 
birds  have  no  instinct  whatever.  Some 
have  blind  luck,  but  a  hen  with  instincts 
in  good  working  order  would  be  an 
anomaly. 

I  visited  Mr.  Stockton  at  his  extensive 
farm  in  New  Jersey  in  order  to  find  out  what 
I  could  about  the  project.     I  found  him  in 
41 


42          INSTINCT   SUPPLIED   TO    HENS 

a  frock-coat  and  overalls,  training  a  squash- 
vine  up  a  maple-tree.  He  greeted  me 
cordially,  and  asked  me  to  come  and  see 
his  tomato-trenches.  He  also  showed  me 
quite  an  extensive  area  covered  with  birch 
poles  for  his  radishes  to  climb  on.  He 
was  very  urbane,  and  willingly  told  me  all 
about  the  company. 

"  No  man,"  said  he,  sitting  down  on  one 
of  his  largest  cucumbers  and  motioning 
me  to  a  seat  on  another,  "  who  has  ever 
kept  hens  but  has  wondered  why  they 
were  not  provided  with  a  good  common- 
sense  brand  of  instinct.  No  animal  needs 
instinct  more  than  a  hen.  It  was  to  sup- 
ply this  need  that  our  company  was 
formed.  You  know  that  if  you  put  a  hen 
on  cobblestones,  she  will  brood  over  them 
with  all  the  devotion  possible,  and  if  at 
the  end  of  three  weeks  you  put  a  baby 
chicken  under  her,  her — what  you  might 
term  false  instinct — will  cause  her  to  cluck 
and  call  to  the  cobble  to  come  forth  and 
follow  her." 

I  admitted  the  force  of  his  remark,  be- 
cause when  a  boy  I  had  once  set  a  hen  on 


INSTINCT   SUPPLIED   TO    HENS          43 

some  green  apples,  and  she  had  covered 
them  without  a  murmur  for  a  week,  when 
I  took  pity  on  her  and  replaced  them  with 


real  eggs.  The  following  day,  not  liking 
the  feeling  of  the  eggs,  she  left  them,  and 
gathering  together  the  apples  that  I  had 
left  scattered  upon  the  barn  floor,  she  sat 
on  them  again. 

I  told  this  experience  to  Mr.  Stockton, 
and  he  said :  "  If  she  'd  had  a  few  of  our 
instinct-powders  before  sitting  she  would 
have  repudiated  the  fraud  at  once.  Is  it 
instinct,  or  the  lack  of  it,"  he  continued, 
"  that  makes  a  heavy  Light  Brahma  plant 
a  ponderous  and  feathered  foot  upon  her 
offspring  and  listen  calmly  to  their  expir- 
ing peeps  ?  It  's  lack  of  it ;  she  needs  one 
of  our  powders." 

I  made  a  mental  calculation  of  the 
number  of  chickens  that  I  had  seen  sacri- 


44          INSTINCT   SUPPLIED   TO    HENS 

need  in  that  way  by  motherly  and  good- 
natured  hens  who  would  have  felt  hurt  if 
you  had  told  them  that  they  did  not  know 
how  to  bring  up  their  young. 

We  had  risen,  and  were  now  walking  as 
we  talked,  and  we  soon  came  to  Mr.  Stock- 
ton's corn-trellises.  He  is  a  great  believer 
in  climbing,  and  it  was  a  pretty  sight  to 
see  his  corn  waving  in  the  breeze  that  blew 
through  the  trellis  netting. 

"  Poultry-raising  would  be  an  unmixed 
joy,"  said  he,  as  he  picked  a  turnip  and 
offered  it  to  me,  "  if  a  fellow  was  n't  con- 
stantly running  up  against  this  lack  of  in- 
stinct on  the  part  of  the  fowls.  If  a  hen 
had  instinct  she  'd  know  enough  to  keep 
her  mouth  shut  when  she  laid  an  egg;  but 
as  it  is,  she  cackles  away  like  a  woman 
with  a  secret,  and  before  she  knows  it  her 
egg  is  on  the  way  to  the  table.  But  the 
aim  of  our  company  will  be  to  furnish  each 
hen  with  a  sufficient  amount  of  instinct 
to  render  her  profitable  to  her  master. 
When  she  has  that  instinct  she  will  not  sit 
on  her  nest  long  after  her  eggs  have  been 
removed  ;  she  will  not  walk  off  through  the 


INSTINCT   SUPPLIED   TO    HENS          45 

long  grass,  calling  to  her  brood  to  follow 
her,  when  the  chicks  have  all  been  swal- 
lowed by  the  treacherous  domestic  cat; 
and  she  will  not  do  the  thousand  and 
one  things  that  any  hen,  no  matter  what 
her  breed  or  breeding,  will  do,  as  it  is." 

I  told  Mr.  Stockton,  as  I  shook  hands 
with  him  in  parting,  that  there  was  not  a 
farmer,  either  amateur  or  professional,  in 
the  whole  Union,  who  would  not  be  glad 
to  purchase  a  package  of  his  instinct- 
powders  ;  and  as  I  left  the  genial  granger, 
he  was  putting  cushions  under  his  water- 
melons so  that  they  would  not  get  bruised 
by  contact  with  the  earth. 


X 

A    SPRING   IDYL 

T  was  a  bright  morning  in  early 
spring  —  one  of  the  delightful, 
languorous  days  that  take  the  sap 
out  of  one  and  make  the  life  of  the  tramp 
seem  blissful.  The  maples  were  just  put- 
ting forth  their  delicate  crimson  leaves, 
and  a  warm  south  wind  bore  into  the  city 
the  smell  of  fresh  earth.  Ah,  what  long- 
ings were  stirred  up  in  the  breast  of  Key, 
Pattit  &  Company's  office-boy,  country- 
bred,  but  pent  up  in  the  city  for  a  twelve- 
month past!  Oh,  for  one  day  in  the 
country!  He  would  follow  the  winding 
trout-stream  from  its  source  in  Perkins's 
meadow  until  it  emptied  into  the  Nauga- 
tuck,  and  with  angleworms  dug  from  the 
famous  spot  north  of  the  barn  he  would 
46 


A   SPRING   IDYL 


47 


lure  the  coy  trout  from  their  shaded  lurk- 
ing-places. 

Hark!  what  was  that?  The  "drowsy 
tinkling "  of  a  cow-bell — of  cow-bells. 
What  sweet  music ! 
It  drove  him  wild 
with  longing,  as 
louder  and  ever 
louder,  and  nearer 
and  yet  nearer, 
came  the  sound  of 
bells.  Ah,  he  could 
see  Jerry,  the  hired 
man,  driving  the 
cows  up  the  grassy 
lane.  As  usual,  Bet- 
ty, the  Jersey,  was 
in  the  lead.  And 
there  was  greedy 
Daisy,  lingering  to  crop  the  rich  grass  that 
grew  along  the  lane  until  Jerry's  " Whe-e-y, 
whe-e-y !  "  should  bid  her  hurry  on.  And 
there  were  the  twin  heifers,  Nanny  and 
Fanny,  perfectly  matched  Holsteins.  And 
in  the  rear,  plodding  on  with  dignity  and 
fatness,  was  Diana,  the  great  Devon. 


48  A   SPRING   IDYL 

How  the  bells  jangled!  Surely  it  was 
not  seeming,  but  actuality.  They  were 
right  outside  on  the  street. 

Impulsively  he  ran  to  the  office  window 
and  looked  down  with  boyish  anticipation. 

"Jingle-jangle!"  went  the  bells. 
"  Rha-ags,  rha-ags,  any  ol'  rha-ags!  " 
shouted  the  ragman. 


XI 
AN    INVERTED    SPRING   IDYL 

T  was  a  bright  morning  in  the  early 
spring,  a  time  to  call  forth  poetic 
fancies  in  the  mind  of  the  most 
prosaic ;  and  Jack  was  more  imaginative 
than  many  boys.  He  had  been  spending 
the  winter  at  his  uncle's  in  the  country, 
and  these  warm,  languorous  days  had 
made  him  long  for  New  York  once  more. 
He  sat  astride  of  a  maple-branch,  on  which 
the  crimson  leaves  were  just  peeping  out. 
Ah  me,  what  would  he  not  give  to  be 
back  in  the  city !  He  leaned  back  against 
the  tree-trunk  and  gave  himself  over  to 
day-dreams. 

The  boys  on  his  block   were  spinning 
tops.     Oh,  for  a  good  hard  city  pavement 
for  just  five  minutes,  that  he  might  do  the 
49 


AN   INVERTED   SPRING   IDYL 


same.  Through  the  hazy  air  came  the 
anything  but  drowsy  tinklings  of  the  grip- 
men's  gongs;  a  scissors-grinder  blew  his 
horn;  and  the  exciting  clang  of  an  ambu- 
lance-gong split  the  air  as  the  ambu- 
lance rattled  over  the  Belgian  blocks.  Oh, 
for  an  hour  of  the  dear  city  in  the  happy 
springtime !  To  hear  once  more  the  piano- 
organ  and  the  harp,  and  the  thousand  de- 
lightful sounds  that  were  so  lamentably 
absent  from  the  country ! 

What  was  that?  Did  he  hear  bells? 
Yes,  surely  it  was  the  ragman.  He  had 
never  realized  how 
he  loved  him.  He 
could  see  the  fellow, 
lean  and  ragged  and 
bent,  pushing  his 
cart,  while  from  his 
lips  came  the  cry 
of  "  Rha-ags!  rha- 


ags 


and 
sagging 


from 

the  sagging  cord 
the  sweet  bells 
jingled.  Yes,  sure- 
ly it  was  the  bells. 


AN   INVERTED   SPRING   IDYL  51 

All  thought  of  the  lonely  country  faded 
away,  and  he  was  once  more  home ;  the 
boys  were  just  around  the  corner,  and  the 
bells  were  coming  nearer. 

Their  tintinnabulations  grew  so  loud 
that  he  waked  from  his  day-dream  and 
saw — not  a  familiar  and  beloved  city 
sight,  but  a  tiresome  herd  of  cows  coming 
home  to  be  milked,  their  harsh  bells  jan- 
gling out  of  tune. 


XII 
AT   THE    CHESTNUTS'    DINNER 


HE  Hoary  Chestnuts  were  assem- 
bling for  their  annual  Christmas 
dinner.  Sweet  music  was  dis- 
coursed by  the  chestnut  bell,  and,  despite 
their  age  and  many  infirmities,  the  mem- 
bers wore  a  look  of  gaiety  suitable  to  so 
festive  an  occasion.  There  was  not  a 
young  joke  among  them,  excepting  a  very 
few  special  jokes  like  the  Trolley  variety 
and  the  Cuban  War  joke,  and  these,  from 
overwork,  were  as  superannuated-looking 
as  the  oldest  there.  Not  a  well-known 
joke  but  would  come.  Of  course  they 
would  all  live  until  the  next  dinner,  for  an 
old  joke  is  immortal ;  but  this  yearly  gath- 
ering was  their  only  chance  to  meet  and 
shake  hands  generally,  as  during  the  rest 
52 


AT   THE   CHESTNUTS'   DINNER          53 

of  the  year  they  would  be  scattered 
through  the  columns  of  the  dailies  and  the 
comic  weeklies,  and  their  meetings  would 
be  chance  ones. 

The  hearty  old  Mother-in-law  joke 
chatted  gaily  with  that  venerable  old  lady, 
I-will-be-a-sister-to-you.  The  adorable 
twins,  Ballet-girl's-age  and  Ballet-girl's- 
scant-raiment,  were  the  center  of  a  group 
made  up  of  the  haughty  Rich-plumber,  the 
Rejected-manuscript,  the  Slow-messenger- 
boy,  the  Sleeping-watchman,  and  a  good 
score  of  Boarding-house  jokes.  The  one 
called  Boarding-house-coffee  felt  a  little 
stirred  up  at  the  false  report  that  he  was 
losing  ground,  and  he  had  an  unsettled 
look  upon  his  swarthy  and  senile  features. 
The  idea  was  absurd  on  the  face  of  it,  for 
undoubtedly  he  would  be  printed  in  every 
section  of  the  country  before  the  month 
was  out,  as  he  had  been  any  month  for 
decades  past.  The  Summer  jokes,  includ- 
ing, of  course,  the  star  jest,  the  Summer- 
girl,  looked  comparatively  fresh,  as  they 
were  not  in  use  the  year  round,  like  Her- 
father's-foot,  for  instance,  or  that  other 


54 


AT   THE   CHESTNUTS'   DINNER 


member  of  the  same  family,  the  Chicago- 
girl's-foot,  that  year  in  and  year  out  is 
used  as  a  laugh-producer. 

The  Boston  jokes,  icy  and  reserved,  sat 
apart  from  the  rest,  and  glared  at  each 


other  in  a  near-sighted  way.  The  Freak 
jokes,  on  the  contrary,  were  hail-fellow- 
well-met  with  every  one,  and  their  vulgar 
laughter  could  be  heard  everywhere. 

A  good  deal  of  sympathy  was  expressed 
for  Actor-walking-home,  for  he  was  so 
feeble  that  he  had  to  be  helped  across  the 


AT   THE   CHESTNUTS'   DINNER          55 

room  by  Weary  Wraggles.  The  Tramps 
were  out  in  force.  Tickets  to  the  dinner 
were  five  dollars,  and  it  was  rumored  that 
Dusty  Rhodes  had  worked  his  way  in,  but 
upon  reflection  the  idea  will  be  seen  to  be 
preposterous. 

There  was  a  strong  smell  of  cloves  in 
the  air  when  the  door  opened  for  the 
entrance  of  old  Between-the-acts.  He 
came  arm  in  arm  with  that  other  favorite, 
Detained-at-the-lodge. 

The  Farmer  jokes  came  in  a  little  late. 
Their  chores  had  detained  them.  But  their 
entrance  was  hailed  with  delight  by  a  body 
of  paragraphers  who  sat  in  the  gallery  as 
representatives  of  the  press,  and  who  had 
paid  many  a  bill,  thanks  to  the  Farmers. 

A  joke,  rather  square-cut  and  with 
wheels  in  his  head,  came  in  with  a  "  Where 
is  she?  "  look  on  his  dial,  and  as  soon  as 
he  said,  "  I  expected  to  meter  here,"  he 
was  recognized  as  Big-gas-bill.  The 
Wheel  jokes  were  conspicuous  by  their 
absence.  This  was  explained  on  the 
ground  that  they  were  not  yet  old  enough 
to  become  Hoary  Chestnuts,  and,  as  a  re- 


56          AT   THE   CHESTNUTS'    DINNER 

lentless  paragrapher  remarked,  "  They 
were  tired,  anyhow." 

The  last  ones  to  arrive  were  the  Canni- 
bal and  Tough-missionary ;  and  the  chair- 
man of  the  reception  committee  having 
assigned  them  seats  at  opposite  ends  of 
the  table,  all  sat  down,  and  the  annual 
balloting  to  determine  what  had  been  the 
most  popular  joke  of  the  year  was  begun. 

Many  voted  for  themselves,  notably  the 
Boston-bean  joke  and  the  Rich-plumber; 
but  when  the  votes  were  counted,  the  suc- 
cessful person  proved  to  be  neither  of 
these,  but  a  hideously  homely  woman  with 
a  perpetual  smirk  upon  her  face. 

"  Who  's  she?  "  asked  one  paragrapher 
of  another. 

"You  don't  know  her?  Why,  that  's 
My-  face-  is-my-fortune-then  -  you  -  must  - 
be-dead-broke." 

And  they  crowned  her  with  laurel  as 
unquestionably  the  most  perennially  pop- 
ular joke. 


XIII 
THE   ROUGH   WORDS   SOCIETY 

HE  other  day  I  passed  a  house  on 
which  there  was  a  sign  that  read, 
"The  Rough  Words  Society." 
Curious  to  know  what  it  could  mean,  I 
retraced  my  steps,  and  met  a  millionaire 
whom  I  had  long  admired  from  a  distance 
— he  was  so  rich — just  leaving  the  door. 
It  was  a  presumptuous  thing  to  do,  but  I 
said,  "  How  do  you  do,  sir?"  in  my  best 
manner.  He  bowed  with  some  urbanity, 
and  I  ventured  to  ask  him  whether  he 
could  tell  me  anything  about  the  society 
whose  rooms  he  had  just  left.  "  I  thought 
maybe  you  were  president,  sir,  or  one  of 
the  directors." 

"  No ;  I  am  a  subscriber.     If  you  care 
57 


58          THE   ROUGH   WORDS   SOCIETY 

to  hear  about  it,  come  down-town  with 
me,  as  I  am  in  a  hurry,"  he  replied. 

A  minute  later  I  was  actually  in  a  cab 
with  a  millionaire!  My  heart  beat  hard, 
but  I  kept  my  ears  open,  and  he  said : 

"  You  see,  a  multi-millionaire  like  myself 
seldom  meets  the  frank  side  of  people. 
They  are  afraid  of  offending  me,"  he  ob- 
served, as  we  went  on  our  way.  "  My 
pastor  hangs  on  my  words,  my  clerks 
speak  in  subdued  tones,  my  servants 
hardly  dare  address  me ;  and  yet,  I  was 
once  a  barefoot  boy,  and  was  considered  a 
scapegrace  by  the  village  people  who  to- 
day bow  ceremoniously  when  I  chance  to 
go  back  to  my  native  place.  Well,  such 
sycophancy  becomes  wearing,  and  I  often 
used  to  wish  that  some  one  would  tell  me 
I  lied,  or  some  other  wholesome  truth." 

I  shook  my  head  deprecatingly,  whereat 
he  seemed  annoyed,  but  went  on :  "  One 
day  I  was  passing  through  the  street  where 
you  met  me,  and  I  saw  the  sign,  and,  like 
yours,  my  curiosity  was  excited,  and  I 
went  in.  I  found  a  room  somewhat  like  a 
telegraph-office  in  appearance.  A  very 


THE   ROUGH   WORDS   SOCIETY          59 

downright,  uncompromising-looking  man 
sat  at  a  roll-top  desk,  while  ranged  against 
the  wall  were  several  men  of  exceedingly 
bluff  appearance.  '  Can  you  tell  me  what 
the  aims  of  your  society  are  ?  '  I  asked  the 
man.  '  Certainly  I  can,'  said  he.  '  I 
would  n't  be  here  if  I  could  n't.'  Not  a 
cringe,  you  see.  It  was  refreshing. 
'Well,  will  you?'  'It  depends,'  he  said. 
'What  do  you  want  to  know  for?  Are 
you  a  reporter,  or  do  you  want  to  sub- 
scribe?' 

"  I  suddenly  divined  the  purpose  of  the 
society,  and  I  said :  '  I  want  to  subscribe. 
What  are  your  terms  ?  '  'A  hundred  dol- 
lars for  a  fifteen-minute  seance,  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars  for  a  half-hour,  and 
two  hundred  dollars  for  a  full  hour.'  I 
handed  him  a  hundred-dollar  bill  and 
said:  '  Explain.'  'Jack/  said  he,  address- 
ing a  bullet-headed  man  who  was  sitting 
with  his  feet  up  on  the  railing  that  divided 
the  room  into  two  parts,  '  give  this  man  a 
piece  of  your  mind.'  Jack  ran  through  a 
directory  of  millionaires  containing  photo- 
graphs and  short  biographical  sketches, 


6o 


THE   ROUGH    WORDS    SOCIETY 


and  when  he  had  found  mine  he  sailed  in 
and  talked  as  plainly  as  any  one  could. 
Did  n't  say  a  word  that  was  n't  true ;  but 
he  did  n't  mince  his  language,  and  he  was 
no  more  abashed  by  my  position  in  the 
world  than  if  I  'd  still  been  a  barefoot  boy. 
It  did  me  good.  He  overhauled  many  of 
my  acts  during  the  last  twenty  years,  and 
talked  to  me  like  a  Dutch  uncle.  Re- 
freshed ?  Why,  a  Turkish  bath  is  not  in  it 
for  comfort!  After  he  'd  finished,  the 
manager  said  I  could  have  an  extra  in  the 


THE   ROUGH   WORDS   SOCIETY  61 

way  of  a  little  billingsgate  if  I  cared  to; 
but,  if  I  was  born  poor,  I  have  always  had 
gentlemanly  instincts,  and  so  I  told  him  I 
guessed  not. 

"  As  I  came  away,  he  said :  '  Glad  to 
have  you  call  any  time  that  you  feel  the 
need  of  a  few  plain  truths.  We  have  a 
minister  who  says  what  he  thinks  in  a  very 
trenchant  way,  and  I  'm  sure  you  'd  be 
glad  to  let  him  give  you  a  raking  over. 
Here  's  one  of  our  cards.  Drop  in  any 
time  you  're  passing.  If,  for  any  reason, 
you  are  not  able  to  come,  we  can  send  a 
man  to  take  up  his  abode  in  your  house, 
or  to  give  you  half-hour  talks  from  the 
shoulder,  and  you  can  have  a  monthly  ac- 
count with  us.  Say  a  good  word  for  us 
to  any  of  your  plutocratic  friends  who  are 
tired  of  sycophancy.  Good  day,  old 
man.' ' 

I  \vas  aghast  at  what  he  had  told  me, 
and  I  said:  "  I  wonder  at  his  temerity!  " 

"  Why,"  said  the  millionaire,  "  I  love 
him  for  it!  After  a  directors'  meeting, 
when  I  have  been  kotowed  to  until  my 
gorge  rises,  I  just  drop  in  there,  and  they 


62          THE   ROUGH   WORDS  SOCIETY 

tell  me  unpleasant  truths  about  myself 
with  the  utmost  freedom, — you  see,  they 
keep  posted  about  me, — and  I  come  out 
feeling  a  hundred  per  cent,  better.  Well, 
here  's  my  office.  Good  day,  young 
man." 

"  Good  day,  sir,  and  thank  you  for  let- 
ting me  ride  with  you." 

He  slammed  the  door  as  if  vexed,  and 
as  he  approached  the  door  of  his  office  a 
negro  ran  to  open  it,  and  two  office-boys 
took  his  coat  and  hat,  and  I  envied  the 
great  man  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 


XIV 
A   NEW   USE   FOR   HORSES 

MET  Scott  Bindley  the  other 
day.  Scott  is  a  great  schemer. 
I  think  he  must  be  related  on  his 
mother's  side  to  Colonel  Sellers.  At  any 
rate,  there  is  n't  a  day  in  the  year  that  he 
does  n't  think  of  some  idea  that  should 
interest  capital,  although  capital,  somehow, 
fails  to  become  interested.  As  soon  as  he 
saw  me  he  said : 

"  Got  a  great  scheme.     Small  fortune 
in  it  for  the  right  parties." 
"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 
"  Come  into  some    cheap  lunch-place, 
and  I  '11  blow  myself  off  to  a  meal  and 
give  you  the  particulars." 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  we  were  soon 
63 


64  A   NEW   USE   FOR   HORSES 

seated  in  a  restaurant  which,  if  cheap,  is 
clean — a  combination  rarer  than  need  be. 

"  You  've  probably  noticed  that  the 
more  automobiles  there  are  in  use,  the 
more  breakdowns  there  are." 

I  could  but  admit  that  it  was  so. 

"  Well,  what  is  more  useless  than  a 
broken-down  motor- wagon?  " 

I  would  have  suggested  "  Two,"  but 
Bindley  hates  warmed-up  jokes,  so  I  re- 
frained and  told  him  that  I  gave  it  up. 

"  It  is  n't  a  conundrum,"  said  he,  irrita- 
bly. "  Nothing  in  the  world  is  more  use- 
less than  a  broken-down  motor.  There 
are  some  vehicles  of  a  box-like  pattern 
that  can  be  used  as  hen-houses  when  they 
have  outlived  their  initial  usefulness,  but 
who  wants  a  hen-house  on  Fifth  Avenue, 
corner  of  Twenty-fifth  Street,  or  any  other 
place  where  a  motor  vehicle  gives  out? 
The  more  I  thought  this  over,  the  more  I 
felt  that  something  was  needed  to  make  a 
disabled  automobile  of  some  use,  and  I 
saw  that  the  man  who  would  supply  that 
something  could  make  money  hand  over 
fist.  So  I  devoted  a  great  deal  of  time 


A  NEW   USE   FOR   HORSES  65 

to  the  subject,  and  at  last  I  hit  it. 
Horses." 

"  Horses  what?"  said  I. 

"  Why,  horses  to  supply  the  motive 
power.  Horses  are  getting  to  be  a  drug 


in  the  market,  and  can  be  bought  dirt- 
cheap.  That  being  the  case,  I  am  going 
to  interest  capitalists  in  the  scheme,  and 
then  we  will  buy  up  a  lot  of  horses  and 
distribute  them  at  different  points  in  the 
city.  Then,  when  a  man  is  out  in  his 
automobile  and  breaks  down,  he  will  tele- 
phone to  the  nearest  station  and  get  a 
horse.  This  can  easily  be  hitched  to  the 
motor  by  a  contrivance  that  I  intend  to 
patent,  and  then  the  horse  can  drag  the 
wagon  to  the  nearest  power-house,  where 
it  can  be  restocked  with  electricity,  or  gas, 
or  naphtha,  or  whatever  is  wanted.  Is  n't 


66  A   NEW   USE   FOR   HORSES 

it  a  great  scheme  ?  Why,  sir,  I  can  see  in 
the  future  the  plan  enlarged  so  that  people 
will  always  take  a  horse  along  with  them 
when  they  go  a-motoring,  and,  if  anything 
happens,  there  they  are  with  the  good  old 
horse  handy.  Talk  about  the  horseless 
age !  Why,  horses  are  just  entering  upon 
a  new  sphere  of  usefulness." 

I  opened  my  mouth  to  speak,  but  he 
went  on :  "I  tell  you  that  if  I  can  get  the 
holders  of  automobile  stock  to  cooperate 
with  me  I  '11  stop  eating  at  places  like 
this." 

A  look  of  such  sweet  content  overspread 
his  features  that  I  told  him  to  put  me 
down  for  ten  shares  as  soon  as  his  company 
was  organized.  That  was  a  month  ago, 
and  I  have  n't  gotten  my  stock  yet.  But 
motors  are  becoming  stalled  every  day. 


XV 
A   CALCULATING   BORE 

|Y  friend  Bings  is  one  of  those 
habitual  calculators — one  of  the 
kind  that  says  if  all  the  teeth  that 
have  been  extracted  since  the  first  dentist 
began  business  were  to  be  used  for  pav- 
ing purposes  in  Hades,  the  good-resolu- 
tions contractor  would  be  out  of  a  job  for 
ten  thousand  years.  He  thinks  in  num- 
bers, and  if  he  were  a  minister  he  would 
get  all  his  texts  from  the  same  source. 

The  other  day  he  saw  me  first  on  a 
ferry-boat,  and  immediately  buttonholed 
me.  Said  he :  "  How  sad  it  is  to  think 
that  so  much  labor  goes  for  naught!  " 

I  knew  that  I  was  in  for  one  of  his  cal- 
culations; but  I  also  knew  that  it  would 
be  useless  to  try  to  head  him  off. 
67 


68 


A   CALCULATING   BORE 


He  stroked  his  beard,  and  said,  with  an 
imitation  of  thoughtfulness : 

"  Every  day  in  this  Empire  State  one 
million  human  beings  go  to  bed  tired  be- 
cause you  and  I 
and  the  rest  leave 
butter  on  our 
plates  and  don't 
eat  our  crusts." 

I  told  him  that 
I  was  astonished, 
but  that  he  would 
have  to  elucidate. 
"  The  farmers 
sow  8,000,000 
bushels  of  useless 
grain, — grain  that 

eventually  goes  out  to  sea  on  the  refuse- 
scows, — they  milk  50,000  cows  to  no  other 
purpose  than  to  produce  sour  or  spilled 
milk,  they  allow  their  valuable  hens  to  lay 
1,654,800,001  eggs  that  will  serve  no  better 
purpose  than  to  spatter  some  would-be 
Booth  or  lie  neglected  in  some  out-of-the- 
way  corner,  while  their  wives  are  making 
1,008,983  pounds  of  butter  that  will  be  left 


A   CALCULATING   BORE  69 

on  the  edges  of  plates  and  thrown  into  the 
refuse-pail.  If  they  did  n't  sow  the  useless 
grain,  or  fuss  over  the  hens  that  lay  the  un- 
used eggs,  or  draw  the  milk  that  is  destined 
to  sour,  or  make  the  butter  that  is  to  orna- 
ment the  edges  of  the  china  disks,  they 
would  be  able  to  go  to  bed  merely  health- 
ily tired  instead  of  overworked,  and  fewer 
farmers  would  commit  suicide,  and  fewer 
farmers'  wives  would  go  insane." 

His  eyes  gleamed,  and  I  knew  that,  as  he 
would  put  it,  his  pulse  was  going  so  fast 
that  if  it  were  revolutions  of  a  locomotive- 
wheel  it  would  take  only  so  long  to  go 
somewhere. 

"  And  what  is  your  remedy  for  all 
this?"  asked  I,  with  becoming,  if  mock, 
interest. 

"  Let  us  help  ourselves  to  no  more  than 
we  want  at  table,  buy  our  eggs  a  week 
earlier,  drink  our  milk  the  day  before,  eat 
our  bread  before  it  is  too  dry,  and  in  six 
months'  time  there  will  be  a  reduced  State 
death-rate,  more  vacancies  in  the  insane 
asylums,  1,456,608  rosy  cheeks  where  to- 
day there  are  that  many  pale  ones — " 

5* 


70  A   CALCULATING  BORE 

Just  then  the  ferry-boat's  gates  were 
lifted,  and  as  we  went  our  several  ways,  in 
the  hurry  that  is  characteristic  of  7,098, 1 1 1 
Americans  out  of  eight  millions,  I  thought 
that,  if  all  the  brains  of  all  the  arithmetical 
cranks  were  used  in  place  of  wood-pulp 
to  make  into  paper,  we  writers  would  get 
our  pads  for  nothing. 


XVI 
AN   URBAN   GAME 

GAME  that  is  much  played  in 
hot  weather  by  persons  who  are 
addicted  to  the  department-store 
habit  is  called  "Where  can  I  find  it?" 
It  is  played  by  means  of  counters,  and  its 
duration  is  often  a  whole  morning  in 
length.  To  the  looker-on  it  is  much  like 
golf,  it  seems  so  aimless ;  and  it  is  aimless, 
but  it  has  the  advantages  over  golf  that  it 
can  be  played  in  the  city  and  does  not 
necessitate  the  services  of  a  caddy.  Over 
a  score  take  a  hand  in  it  from  first  to  last, 
but  only  one  is  "  it,"  and  she  or  he  dis- 
plays the  only  activity  necessary  to  the 
game.  Only  those  who  are  of  tough 
build  should  undertake  to  play  it  on  a  hot 
day,  as  it  is  extremely  debilitating. 


72  AN    URBAN   GAME 

To  make  the  game  long  and  interesting, 
you  should  enter  the  store  and  ask  for 
something  a  little  unusual  that  you  may 
have  seen  advertised  somewhere.  For  in- 
stance, you  go  to  the  glove  counter  and 
ask  for  a  preparation  for  making  soup, 
called  "  Soupina."  I  am  not  advertising 
anything,  as  the  name  is  fictitious,  but  it 
will  serve  to  illustrate  my  meaning.  The 
particular  embodiment  of  haughtiness  at 
the  glove  counter  will  think  that  you 
mean  some  kind  of  soap,  and  will  frigidly 
direct  you  to  the  perfumery  department, 
"  pillar  No.  8."  You  go  there  simply  be- 
cause it  is  your  move,  and  you  repeat 
your  inquiry,  adding  that  you  think  it  's 
put  up  in  bottles. 

"  Bottled  goods,"  is  the  quick  rejoinder, 
"  fourth  floor." 

The  elevator  bears  you  to  the  grocery 
department,  and  you  ask  for  "  bottled 
goods." 

"  Pillar  20." 

At  pillar  No.  20  you  are  made  to  realize 
what  a  poor  worm  you  are,  and  you  turn 
to  pillar  10,  as  requested,  that  being  the 


AN    URBAN   GAME 


73 


canned-goods  department.  That  clerk 
will  undoubtedly  misunderstand  your  order 
and  will  direct  you  to  the  basement, 
"  pillar  15."  You  hurry  down  in  the  ele- 
vator, and  come  face  to  face  with  the 
mouse-trap  counter.  How  you  go  from 
ladies'  underwear  to  carpets,  to  furniture, 
to  the  telegraph-office,  to  the  dental  par- 
lors, to  the  menagerie,  to  the  restaurant, 
to  the  lace  goods,  to 
every  department 
known  to  a  modern 
city  under  one  roof, 
you  can  best  find  out 
for  yourself,  but  of 
one  thing  you  may 
be  sure — you  will 
never  find  "  Sou- 
pina." 

At  last,  dazed 
and  heated  and 
leg-weary,  you 
find  yourself  in 
the  oath-regis- 
tering room. 
This  is  a  little 


74  AN   URBAN   GAME 

room  that  is  in  every  well-equipped  de- 
partment-store, and  fills  a  long-felt  want, 
for  all  shoppers,  at  one  time  or  another, 
wish  to  register  an  oath.  Whether  you 
register  or  not,  the  game  is  now  over,  and 
you  have  lost;  there  is  no  possibility  of 
winning.  And  yet,  so  fascinating  is  the 
sport  that  as  soon  as  you  have  recovered 
the  use  of  your  muscles  you  will  be  eager 
to  play  again. 


XVII 
"DE   GUSTIBUS" 

IT  was  on  one  of  the  cannibal  isl- 
ands, and  a  family  of  cannibals 
were  discussing  the  pleasures  of 
the  table  on  their  front  piazza  while  they 
waited  for  dinner  to  be  announced.  Their 
eldest  daughter,  a  slim,  acidulous-looking 
girl,  just  home  from  boarding-school,  and 
full  of  fads  and  "  isms,"  had  said  that,  for 
her  part,  she  did  not  care  for  human  flesh 
at  all,  and  was  of  the  opinion  that  pigs  or 
lambs,  or  even  cows,  would  make  just  as 
good  eating  as  the  tenderest  enemy  ever 
captured  or  the  juiciest  missionary  ever 
broiled. 

"  How  disgusting!  "  said  her  brother, 
a  lusty  young  cannibal  who  had  once  eaten 
two  Salvation  Army  lassies  at  a  sitting. 
75 


76  "DE   GUSTIBUS" 

"  Really,  if  you  get  such  unpleasant  notions 
at  school,  it  would  be  better  for  you  to 
stay  at  home.  My  gorge  rises  at  the  idea. 
Ugh!  " 

"  Papa,"  said  dear  little  kinky-haired 
E.  Taman,  the  peacemaker  of  the  family, 
changing  the  subject,  "  why  are  mission- 
aries better  eating  than  our  neighbors  and 
enemies?  " 

"  Probably  because  they  are  apt  to  be 
cereal-eaters,"  said  her  father,  the  cannibal 
chief;  "  although  one  of  the  most  delicious 
missionaries  I  ever  tasted  was  a  Boston  lady 
who  had  been  raised  on  beans.  She  was 
a  Unitarian.  Your  Unitarians  generally 
make  good  eating.  There  's  a  good  deal 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  them, 
and  that  makes  them  excellent  roasters. 
Now,  you  take  a  hard-shell  Baptist,  and 
you  might  as  well  eat  a  '  shore  dinner '  at 
once.  They  need  a  heap  of  steaming, 
and  they  're  apt  to  be  watery  when  all  's 
said  and  done.  But  it  must  be  confessed 
they  have  more  taste  than  a  wishy-washy 
agnostic." 

"  I  think  the  most  unsatisfactory  of  the 


"DE   GUSTIBUS" 


77 


lot,"  said  his  wife,  "is  your  Presbyterian. 
He  's  pretty  sure  to  be  dry  and  gnarly,  and 
good  for  nothing  but 
fricasseeing.  But  I  think 
that  for  all-round  use, 
although  they  have  n't 
the  delicacy  of  the  Uni- 
tarian, the  Methodist  is 
what  you  might  call  the 
Plymouth  Rock  of  mis- 
sionaries. He  's  gen- 
erally fat,  and  he  has  n't 
danced  himself  dry,  and 
he  's  good  for  a  pot- 
roast  or  any  old  thing. 
By  the  way,  we  're  go- 
ing to  have  one  to-day, 
tell  the  cook  to  baste  him  well." 

The  old  grandfather,  who  had  hitherto 
taken  no  part  in  the  conversation,  said  at 
this  point :  "  Well,  as  you  know,  in  my 
day  I  have  been  something  of  an  epicure, 
and  I  have  tasted  every  variety  of  dish 
known  to  cannibals.  I  don't  care  for 
fresh-killed  meat,  no  matter  of  what  de- 
nomination it  is,  and  while  I  don't  wish  to 


I  must  go  and 


78  "DE   GUSTIBUS" 

be  considered  a  sectarian,  yet  I  do  think 
that  if  you  want  a  dish  that  is  capable  of 
a  good  deal  of  trimming  and  fancy  fixings' 
get  hold  of  an  Episcopal  missionary ;  and, 
to  me,  the  chief  beauty  of  the  Episcopalian 
is  that  he  's  apt  to  be  a  little  high." 


XVIII 
"BUFFUM'S  BUSTLESS  BUFFERS" 

WAS  looking  at  a  rather  start- 
ling picture  in  the  morning  paper 
of  a  man  who  had  fallen  from  a 
seventh-story  window  and  had  been  in- 
stantly killed.  The  man  in  the  seat  next 
to  me — we  were  on  the  elevated — said  : 
"  I  '11  do  away  with  all  those  accidents 
soon." 

I  turned  and  looked  at  him.  He  was  a 
lean-faced,  hollow-eyed  man,  full  of  ner- 
vous starts,  and  quick  of  speech. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  I,  some- 
what puzzled. 

"Oh,  nothing;   oh,  nothing  at  all,"  he 
replied,  as  if  sorry  he  had  spoken.     "  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  laughed  at.    I  am  no  Keely 
79 


8o       "BUFFUM'S   BUSTLESS   BUFFERS" 

motor  man  to  be  laughed  at.  I  spoke 
without  thought." 

I  fancied  there  was  a  story  in  him,  and 
so  I  drew  him  out,  and  he  said  in  short, 
quick  sentences,  but  in  so  low  a  tone  that 
I  had  to  strain  my  ears  to  hear  him : 

"  I  am  Burgess  Buffum,  the  inventor  of 
Buffum's  Bustless  Buffers." 

He  paused  with  rhetorical  effect,  and 
nodded  and  blinked  his  eyes ;  and  I,  duly 
impressed,  asked  him  what  the  buffers 
were  supposed  to  buff. 

"  Children  at  open  windows.  Painters 
on  scaffolds.  Panic-stricken  flyers  from 
fires.  Mountain-climbers.  In  fact,  all 
persons  whose  business  or  duty  or  pleasure 
carries  them  to  unsafe  heights.  My 
buffers  are  filled  with  air,  and  you  can't 
bust  'em.  Child  can  fill  'em.  Foot- 
pump,  puff,  puff,  puff,  and  there  you 
are.  They  are  made  of  rubber  and  weigh 
next  to  nothing.  Painter  at  work  on 
scaffold ;  hears  rope  breaking ;  seizes  one 
of  my  patent  buffers ;  holds  it  carelessly 
in  his  right  hand  until  within  five  feet  of 
the  pavement;  then  catches  it  with  both 


"BUFFUM'S   BUSTLESS   BUFFERS"      81 


hands,  holds  it  in  front 
of  him  as  a  shield,  and 
falls  with  it  under  him. 
Merely  pleasant  titil- 
lation.  Up  at  once ; 
mends  rope;  resumes 
painting ;  undertaker 
foiled ;  no  funeral ; 
money  saved  ;  put  in 
bank,  or  invested  in 
stock  in  my  com- 
pany— " 

"  But,"  said  I,  in- 
terrupting him,  "sup- 
pose the  buffer  is  n't 
handy? " 

"  Ah,  that  's  his 
lookout.  It  must  be 
handy.  No  business 
to  take  chances  when 
safeguard  is  on  scaf- 
folding with  him. 
Or  child  playing  on 
fire-escape ;  careful 
mother  puts  two  of 
my  buffers  out  there; 


82       "BUFFUM'S   BUSTLESS   BUFFERS" 

warns  child  not  to  fall  without  one;  goes 
about  her  work  care-free ;  child  feels  that 
it  is  about  to  fall ;  clutches  buffer ;  goes 
down  like  painter;  pleasant  ride;  child 
enjoys  it ;  perfect  confidence  in  my  buffer ; 
holds  it  under  him  ;  arrives  seated ;  no  de- 
leterious effect;  continues  play  in  street. 
Object-lesson  in  favor  of  my  invention. 
Child  takes  orders  for  my  buffers;  gets 
commission  from  me.  Sells  dozens — " 

Just  then  the  guard  called  out,  "  Forty- 
'second  Street!  "  and  a  man  whom  I  had 
not  noticed  before,  but  who  wore  an  air 
of  authority,  and  who  sat  next  to  Buffum, 
rose  and,  touching  him  on  the  arm,  said, 
"  Come." 

And  before  I  could  get  the  inventor's 
address  he  had  left  the  train. 

But  I  fancy  that 

BURGESS  BUFFUM,  ESQ., 

Bloomingdale, 
will  reach  him. 


AT   THE    LITERARY    COUNTER 


XIX 

THE  FATHER  OF  SANTA 
CLAUS" 

HE  Successful  Author  dropped  in 
at  the  club  and  looked  around 
for  some  one  to  whom  he  might 
talk  shop.  He  spied  the  Timid  Aspirant 
in  the  corner,  and  asked  him  to  sit  down. 
The  Timid  Aspirant  blushed  all  over,  and 
felt  that  better  days  were  dawning  for  him, 
because  the  Successful  Author's  name  was 
in  every  one's  mouth. 

"  Have  much  trouble  to  sell  your  stuff, 
my  boy?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  I  ought  n't  to  complain." 
"  Never  destroy  a  manuscript,  my  boy. 
You  don't,  do  you  ?  " 


86  "THE  FATHER  OF  SANTA  GLAUS" 

"  Sometimes,  sir." 

"  Ah,  don't.  You  never  know  when  it 
will  become  valuable.  Anything  written 
has  its  niche  somewhere." 

Then  the  Successful  Author  sank  back  in 
his  arm-chair  and  continued  reminiscently  : 
"  I  '11  never  forget  how  one  of  my  articles 
fared.  It  was  the  fourth  or  fifth  thing 
that  I  had  written,  and  it  was  called  '  The 
Father  of  Santa  Claus.'  I  liked  it  better 
than  any  editor  has  ever  liked  anything  of 
mine." 

The  Timid  Aspirant  nodded  sympathet- 
ically, and  the  Successful  Author  contin- 
ued :  "  I  sent  it  to  the  '  Prospect/  and 
it  came  back  promptly.  Did  I  destroy  it  ? 
Not  at  all.  I  pigeonholed  it,  and  next 
year  I  sent  it  to  them  again.  Again 
it  came  back,  and  once  more  I  laid  it  to 
rest  for  a  twelvemonth,  and  then  bom- 
barded the  '  Prospect '  with  it.  This  sort 
of  thing  went  on  for  several  years,  until 
at  last,  to  save  time,  the  editor  had  a 
special  form  of  rejection  printed  for  it  that 
ran  about  as  follows : 


"THE  FATHER  OF  SANTA  CLAUS"  87 

"DEAR  SIR:  The  time  of  year  has  come  once 
more  when  we  reject  your  story,  '  The  Father  of 
Santa  Claus.'  It  would  not  seem  like  the  sweet 
Christmas  season  if  we  did  not  have  a  chance  to 
turn  it  down.  Yours  respectfully, 

"EDITOR  THE  PROSPECT." 


"  Let  you  down  easy  each  year,  did  n't 
he?" 

"  Yes.  Well,  in  course  of  time  my  price 
went  up.  At  the  start  I  'd  have  been  tickled 
to  death  to  get  five  dollars  for  the  thing, 
but  now  I  knew  that  if  the  editor  ever  did 
change  his  mind  I  'd  get  at  least  fifty,  so 
I  kept  at  it.  Well,  it  was  last  year  that 
my  collection  of  stories  made  such  a  hit, 
and  since  then  I  've  been  so  busy  filling 
orders  for  short  stories  that  I  forgot  to 
send  my  dear  old  mossback  out  this  year. 
But  day  before  yesterday  I  received  a 
note  from  the  editor  of  the  '  Prospect ' 
asking  for  a  Christmas  sketch.  Now  was 
my  opportunity.  I  wrote  back: 

"  Sorry  I  have  n't  anything  new,  but  it  struck 
me  that  you  might  like  to  look  at  an  old  thing  of 


"THE   FATHER   OF   SANTA   CLAUS 


mine  called  '  The  Father  of  Santa  Claus,'  and  if 
you  care  to  consider  its  publication  I  '11  let  it  go 
for  a  couple  of  hundred,  just  for  the  sake  of  old 
times. 

I  inclosed  the  story,  and  just  before 
coming  here  I  received  a  check  for  two 
hundred  dollars." 

"  What   moral  do  you  deduce 
from  this,  sir?  " 
"  Don't  ever  sell  anything 
until  you  Ve  gotten  a  big 
reputation." 
"  Do  you  mind  talk- 
ing a  little  more 
shop?  "asked  the 
Timid  Aspirant. 
Somehow  he  lost 
his  timidity  when 
talking  to  his  re- 

(££. 

nowned  friend. 

"Of  course  not.  No  one  really  does, 
though  some  affect  to.  Most  talk  is  shop 
talk.  It  may  relate  to  plumbing,  or  to 
dry-goods,  or  to  painting,  or  to  babies, 
but  it  is  of  the  shop  shoppy,  as  a  rule, 
only  '  literary  shop  talk,'  as  Ford  calls  it, 


"THE  FATHER  OF  SANTA  CLAUS"  89 

is  more  interesting  to  an  outsider  than 
the  other  kinds.  What  particular  depart- 
ment of  our  shop  did  you  want  me  to 
handle?" 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  you  believed  in 
cutting  a  man's  work — in  other  words,  do 
you  believe  in  blue-penciling?" 

"  Ah,  my  boy,  I  see  that  they  have 
been  coloring  your  manuscript  with  the 
hateful  crayon.  No,  I  don't  believe  in  it. 
I  dislike  it  now  because  it  mars  my  work, 
and  I  used  to  hate  it  because  it  took 
money  from  my  purse.  Let  me  tell  you 
a  little  incident. 

"  One  time,  years  ago,  I  wrote  an  article, 
and  after  it  was  done  I  figured  on  what  I 
would  get  for  it  and  with  it.  If  I  sold  it 
to  a  certain  monthly  I  had  in  mind  I 
should  receive  enough  to  buy  a  new  hat,  a 
new  suit,  a  pair  of  shoes,  ditto  of  socks, 
and  a  necktie,  for  all  of  which  I  stood  in 
sore  need.  I  hied  me  forth  in  all  the 
exuberance  of  youth  and  bore  my  manu- 
script to  the  editor.  As  he  was  feeling 
pretty  good,  he  said  he  'd  read  it  while  I 
waited.  At  last  he  laid  it  down  and  said : 


90     "THE    FATHER   OF   SANTA   CLAUS" 

'  That  's  a  pretty  good  story.'  My  heart 
leaped  like  an  athlete.  'But' — my  heart 
stopped  leaping  and  listened — '  it  will 
need  a  little  cutting,  and  I  '11  do  it  now,  if 
you  wish.'  ' 

"  Poor  fellow ! "  said  the  Timid  Aspirant, 
sympathetically. 

"Well,  the  first  thing  that  editor  did 
was  to  cut  the  socks  off  of  it;  then  he 
made  a  deep  incision  in  the  hat;  then 
he  slashed  away  at  the  trousers  and  did 
some  scattered  cutting,  and  at  last  handed 
the  manuscript  to  me  that  I  might  see  the 
havoc  he  had  wrought  in  my  prospective 
wardrobe.  Dear  man,  I  had  a  vest  and 
a  necktie  left,  and  that  was  all.  And  it 
would  have  been  the  same  if  it  had  been 
a  dinner." 

The  Timid  Aspirant  shuddered. 

"  Many  a  young  author  has  seen  the 
soup  and  the  vegetables,  and  at  last  the 
steak,  fade  away  under  the  terrible  obliter- 
ating power  of  the  indigo  crayon,  and  lucky 
is  he  if  a  sandwich  and  a  glass  of  water  re- 
main after  the  editor's  fell  work.  Blessed 
is  that  editor  who  does  not  care  to  work 


"THE   FATHER   OF   SANTA   CLAUS"     91 

in  pastel, — to  whom  the  blue  pencil  is 
taboo, — for  he  shall  be  held  in  honored  re- 
membrance of  all  writers,  and  his  end  shall 
be  peace." 

"  Amen!"  said  the  Timid  Aspirant. 


XX 
THE    DIALECT   STORE 

SUPPOSE  I  dreamed  it;  but  if 
there  is  n't  such  a  store,  there 
might  be,  and  it  would  help  quill- 
drivers  a  lot,"  said  the  newspaper  man,  as 
he  and  his  friend  were  waiting  to  give 
their  order  in  a  down-town  restaurant  yes- 
terday noon. 

"What  store  are  you  talking  about,  and 
what  dream  ?  Don't  be  so  vague,  old 
man,"  said  his  friend  the  magazine-writer. 
"Why,  a  dialect  store.  Just  the  thing 
for  you.  I  was  walking  down  Fifth 
Avenue,  near  Twenty-first  Street,  and  I 
saw  the  sign,  '  Dialect  shop.  All  kinds 
of  dialects  sold  by  the  yard,  the  piece,  or 
in  quantities  to  suit.'  I  thought  that 
maybe  I  might  be  able  to  get  some  Swe- 


THE   DIALECT  STORE  93 

dish  dialect  to  help  me  out  on  a  little  story 
I  want  to  write  about  Wisconsin,  so  I 
walked  in.  The  place  looked  a  good  deal 
like  a  dry-goods  store,  with  counters 
down  each  side,  presided  over  by  some 
twenty  or  thirty  clerks,  men  and  women. 

"  The  floor- walker  stepped  up  to  me  and 
said,  '  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  '  'I  want 
to  buy  some  dialect,'  said  I.  '  Oh,  yes ; 
what  kind  do  you  want  to  look  at?  We 
have  a  very  large  assortment  of  all  kinds. 
There  's  quite  a  run  on  Scotch  just  now ; 
perhaps  you  'd  like  to  look  at  some  of 
that.'  '  No ;  Swedish  is  what  I  'm  after,' 
I  replied.  '  Oh,  yes ;  Miss  Jonson,  show 
this  gentleman  some  Swedish  dialect.' 

"  I  walked  over  to  Miss  Jonson's  de- 
partment, and  she  turned  and  opened  a 
drawer  that  proved  to  be  empty.  '  Are 
you  all  out  of  it?'  I  asked.  'Ja;  but  I 
skall  have  some  to-morrer.  A  faller  from 
St.  Paul  he  baen  haer  an'  bought  seventy 
jards.' 

"  I  was  disappointed,  but  as  long  as  I 
was  there  I  thought  I  'd  look  around; 
so  I  stepped  to  the  next  counter,  behind 


94  THE   DIALECT  STORE 

which  stood  a  man  who  looked  as  if  he 
had  just  stepped  out  of  one  of  Barrie's 
novels.  '  Have  you  Scotch  ?  '  said  I.  '  I 
hae  joost  that.  What  '11  ye  hae  ?  Hielan' 
or  lowlan',  reeleegious  or  profane?  I  've 
a  lairge  stock  o'  gude  auld  Scotch  wi'  the 
smell  o'  the  heather  on  it;  or  if  ye  're 
wantin'  some  a  wee  bit  shop-worn,  I  '11  let 
ye  hae  that  at  a  lower  price.  There  's  a 
quantity  that  Ian  Maclaren  left  oot  o'  his 
last  buke.'  I  expressed  surprise  that  he 
had  let  any  escape  him,  and  he  said : 
'  Hech,  mon,  dinna  ye  ken  there  's  no  end 
to  the  Scots  ?  '  I  felt  like  telling  him  that 
I  was  sorry  there  had  been  a  beginning, 
but  I  refrained,  and  he  went  on:  '  We  're 
gettin'  airders  fra  the  whole  English- 
sp'akin'  warld  for  the  gude  auld  tongue. 
Our  manager  has  airdered  a  fu'  line  of  a' 
soorts  in  anticipation  of  a  brisk  business, 
now  that  McKinley — gude  Scotch  name, 
that — is  President.' 

"  I  should  have  liked  to  stay  and  see  a 
lot  of  the  Scotch,  as  it  seemed  to  please 
the  man  to  talk  about  his  goods ;  but  I 
wanted  to  have  a  look  at  all  the  dialects, 


THE   DIALECT  STORE  95 

so  I  bade  him  good  morning,  and  stepped 
to  the  next  department — the  negro. 

"Here  an  unctuous  voice  called  out: 
"Fo'  de  Lawd!  Ah  don'  b'lieve  you  '11 
pass  me  widout  buyin'.  Got  'em  all 
hyah,  boss — Sou'  Ca'lina  an'  Ten'see  an' 
Virginny.  Tawmas  Nelson  Page  buys  a 
heap  er  stuff  right  yer.  Dat  man  sut'n'y 
got  a  great  haid.  He  was  de  fustes'  one 
ter  see  how  much  folks  was  dyin'  ter  git  a 
leetle  di'lect  er  de  ra'ht  sawt,  an'  Ah 
reckon  Ah  sol'  him  de  fus'  yard  he  evah 
bo't.' 

"  '  Do  you  sell  it  by  the  yard  ?  '  I  asked, 
just  to  bring  him  out.  'Shuah!  '  and 
pulling  down  a  roll  of  black  goods,  he  un- 
rolled enough  dialect  to  color  '  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin.'  But  I  said,  '  I  don't  want 
to  buy,  uncle ;  but  I  'm  obliged  to  you  for 
showing  it  to  me.'  '  Oh,  dat  's  all  right, 
boss.  No  trouble  to  show  goods.  Ah 
reckon  yo'  nev'  saw  sech  a  heap  er  local 
col'in'  as  dat.  Hyah!  hyah!  hyah!  We 
got  de  goods,  an'  any  tahm  you  want  to 
fix  up  a  tale,  an'  put  in  de  Queen's  Eng- 
lish in  black,  come  yer  an'  as'  fer  me. 


96  THE   DIALECT  STORE 

Good  day,  sah.'  And  I  passed  on  to  the 
next — Western  dialect. 

"  Here  I  found  that  James  Whitcomb 
Riley  had  just  engaged  the  whole  output 
of  the  plant.  The  clerk  had  an  assistant 
in  his  little  son, — a  Hoosier  boy, — and  he 
piped  up :  '  We  got  'ist  a  littul  bit  er 
chile's  di'lec',  an'  my  popper  says  'at  ef 
Mist'  Riley  don't  come  an'  git  it  soon  'at 
I  can  sell  it  all  my  own  se'f.  'At  'd  be 
the  mostest  fun!  '  and  his  childish  treble 
caused  all  the  other  clerks  in  the  store  to 
look  around  and  smile  kindly  at  him. 

"  In  the  German  department  the  clerk 
told  me  he  was  not  taking  orders  for  dia- 
lect in  bulk.  '  Zome  off  dose  tayatree- 
kalers  dey  buy  it,  aber  I  zell  not  de  best 
to  dem.  I  zell  imitation  kints  "  made  in 
Chairmany."  Aber  I  haf  der  best  eef  you 
vant  it.' 

"  I  told  him  I  did  not  care  to  buy,  and 
passed  on  to  the  French-Canadian  depart- 
ment. The  clerk  was  just  going  out  to 
lunch;  but  although  I  told  him  I  merely 
wished  to  look,  and  not  to  buy,  he  said 
politely :  '  I  try  hall  I  can  for  get  di'lect, 


THE   DIALECT  STORE  97 

but  hup  in  Mon'real  dat  McLennan  he  use 
hall  dere  is;  but  bymby  I  speak  for  some 
dat  a  frien'  have,  an'  he  sen'  me  some. 
An'  'e  tell  me  I  '11  get  hit  las'  summer.' 

I  expressed  a  polite  wish  that  he  might 
get  his  goods  even  sooner  than  '  las'  sum- 
mer,' and  walked  to  the  Jew-dialect 
counter,  over  which  I  was  nearly  pulled 
by  the  Hebrew  clerk.  '  You  're  chust  in 
time,'  he  said.  'Say,  veepin'  Rachel! 
but  I  sell  you  a  parkain.  Some  goots 
on'y  been  ust  vun  veek  on  der  staich ;  unt 
so  hellep  me  cracious!  you  look  so  like 
mein  prudder  Imre  dat  I  let  dem  go  '  — 
here  he  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper — 
'  I  let  dem  go  fer  a  qvarter  uf  a  darler.' 

"  I  resisted  him,  and  hurried  to  the 
Yankee  department.  There  was  tall  hus- 
tling going  on  there,  and  a  perfect  mob  of 
buyers  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
writers;  and  it  took  half  a  dozen  men, 
women,  and  children,  including  three  typi- 
cal farmers,  to  wait  on  them ;  and  they 
were  selling  it  by  the  inch  and  by  the  car- 
load. 'Wall,  I  'm  plumb  tired.  Wisht 
they  'd  let  up  so  'st  I  could  git  a  snack  er 

7 


THE   DIALECT  STORE 


somep'n'  inside  me,'  said  one ;  and  he 
looked  so  worn  out  that  I  passed  on  to 
the  Irish  counter. 
A  twinkling-eyed 
young  Irishman, 
not  long  over,  in 
answer  to  my  ques- 
tion, said :  '  Sure, 
there  's  not  much 
carl  ferlarrge  quan- 
tities av  ut.  Jane 
Barlow  do  be  hav- 
in'  a  good  dale,  an' 
the  funny  papers  do  be  usin'  ut  in  smarl 
lots,  but  't  is  an  aisy  toime  I  have, 
an'  that  's  a  good  thing,  fer  toitnes  is 
harrd.' 

"  I  paused  a  moment  at  the  English- 
dialect  counter,  and  the  rosy-cheeked  clerk 
said :  '  Cawn't  I  show  you  the  very  litest 
thing  in  Coster?'  I  told  him  no,  and  he 
offered  me  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire  at 
'  gritely  reduced  rites ' ;  but  I  was  proof 
against  his  pleading,  and  having  now 
visited  all  the  departments  but  one,  went 
to  that." 


90 

"What  was  it?"  asked  the  writer  for 
the  magazines. 

"  The  tough-dialect  counter." 

"  Tough  is  not  a  dialect,"  said  he. 

"  Maybe  not,  but  it  sounds  all  right,  all 
right.  Well,  whatever  it  is,  the  fellow  in 
charge  was  a  regular  Ninth- Warder,  and 
when  I  got  abreast  of  him  he  hailed  me 
with,  'Soy,  cully,  wot  sort  d'  yer  want? 
I  got  a  chim-dandy  Sunny-school  line  er 
samples  fer  use  in  dose  joints,  or  I  c'n  gi' 
yer  hot  stuff  up  ter  de  limit  an'  beyon'. 
See  ?  Here  's  a  lot  of  damaged  "  wot  t* 
'ells  "  dat  I  '11  trun  down  fer  a  fiver,  an' 
no  questions  ast.  Soy,  burn  me  fer  a  dead 
farmer  if  I  ever  sol'  dem  at  dat  rigger  be- 
fore ;  but  dey  's  some  dat  Townsen'  did  n' 
use,  an'  yet  dey  's  dead-sure  winners  wit' 
de  right  gang.  See  ?  ' 

"  And  then  I  woke  up,  if  I  was  asleep ; 
and  if  I  was  n't,  I  wish  I  could  find  the 
store  again,  for  I  'd  be  the  greatest  dia- 
lect-writer of  the  age  if  I  could  get  goods 
on  credit  there.  Say,  waiter,  we  came 
for  lunch,  not  supper." 


XXI 

"FROM   THE   FRENCH" 

iHEN  a  Frenchman  sets  out  to 
write  a  tale  that  shall  be  wholly 
innocuous,  he  succeeds — and 
thereby  drives  his  readers  to  seek  in  De 
Maupassant  and  Zola  the  antidote  for  his 
poisoning  puerility. 

He  generally  lays  the  scene  in  London, 
that  he  may  air  his  ignorance  of  things 
foreign ;  and  when  the  tale  is  done  it  con- 
tains absolutely  nothing  that  would  bring 
the  blush  of  shame  to  any  cheek  in 
Christendom,  seek  said  cheek  where  you 
might. 

The  following  is  a  fair  sample  of  the 
unharmful  French  story.  I  trust  that  if 
it  had  been  printed  without  preamble  or 
credit,  the  discerning  reader  would  have 


"FROM   THE   FREXCH"  101 

exclaimed,   upon   reading  it,    "  From   the 
French!  "     I  have  called  it — 


IT    IS    GOOD    TO    BE    GOOD 

Ix  the  great  city  of  London,  which,  as 
you  may  know,  is  in  England,  there  is  a 
bridge,  famous  throughout  the  whole  town 
as  London  Bridge.  One  dark  night,  many 
years  ago,  two  men  started  to  cross  it  in 
opposite  directions,  and  running  into  each 
other,  their  heads  crashed  together  in  the 
fog  which  day  and  night  envelops  the  city. 

"  Parbleu  !  "  cried  one,  a  fellow  of  in- 
finite wealth ;  "  but  have  you,  then,  no 
better  use  for  your  head  than  to  make  of 
it  a  battering-ram?  " 

"  Sapristi!"  replied  the  other,  speaking 
in  the  coarse  tones  of  an  English  mechanic 
out  of  work.  "  What  matters  it  what  I 
do  with  it?  A  moment  more  and  I  shall 
be  in  the  Thames"  (a  large  river  corre- 
sponding to  our  Seine,  and  in  equal  demand 
by  suicides).  "  To-night,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  commit  suicide!  " 

"Why,  then,"  said  the  other,  "we  will 

7* 


102  "FROM   THE   FRENCH" 

jump  together,  for  it  is  for  that  purpose 
that  I  have  come  to  this  great  bridge." 

"  But,"  said  the  mechanic,  "  why  should 
you  commit  suicide?  I  can  tell  by  the 
feeling  of  your  garments  that  you  are  rich, 
and  by  the  softness  of  your  head  that  you 
are  noble." 

"  True,  I  am  both  of  those  things,  but, 
also,  I  have  exhausted  every  pleasure  in 
life  but  the  pleasure  of  suicide,  and  would 
now  try  that.  But  you,  you  are  a  me- 
chanic out  of  work,  as  I  can  tell  by  your 
speech.  Why  should  you  seek  pleasure 
instead  of  employment?" 

"Alas,  sir!  I  have  at  home  one  wife 
and  seventeen  children,  all  flaxen-haired, 
and  all  as  poor  as  I.  I  cannot  bear  to  go 
home  to  them  without  even  the  price  of  a 
biftek  or  a  rosbif." 

"  Come,"  said  the  nobleman ;  "  I  will 
defer  my  sport  for  the  night.  I  have 
never  seen  a  starving  family.  It  will  fur- 
nish me  with  a  new  sensation." 

"  Ah !  but  you  have  a  kind  heart,  and  I 
will  not  refuse  you.  The  river  will  keep. 
Follow  me." 


"FROM    THE    FRENCH" 


103 


They  followed  each  other  through  the 
region  of  the  Seven  Clocks,  and  through 
Blanc  Chapel,  afterward  the  scene  of  the 
murders  of  "  Jean  the  RApper,"  until  they 
came  to  the  wretched  apartment  of  the 
poor  artisan.  There,  huddled  in  the 
corner  of  the  room,  were  sixteen  of  the 
starving  but  still  flaxen-haired  children. 
The  mother  sat  near  the  fireplace,  so  that 
she  might  be  near  the  warmth  when  it 
came.  In  the  other  corner  of  the  room — 
for  they  were  so  poor,  these  people,  that 
they  could  not  afford  four  corners — sat  a 


vision  of  beauty,  aged  seventeen  and  a 
girl,  ma  foi!  At  sight  of  her  the  count's 
eyes  rilled  with  tears  of  compassion,  and  he 


104  "FROM   THE    FRENCH". 

handed  his  purse  to  the  wretched  father 
and  said :  "  My  good  man,  do  not  stir 
from  here.  I  will  return  in  an  hour  with 
furniture!  " 

Tears  of  gratitude  coursed  down  the 
thirty-eight  cheeks  of  the  poor  family,  and 
they  no  longer  felt  hungry,  for  they  knew 
that  in  a  short  time  they  would  be  sitting 
upon  real  sofas  and  rocking  in  chairs  like 
those  they  had  seen  through  the  windows 
of  the  rich  on  Holy  Innocents'  Day. 

The  count,  whose  full  title  was  Sir 
Lord  Arnold  Cicil  Judas  Georges  HErold 
Wellington,  grandson  of  the  great  Lord 
of  Wellington,  was  as  good  as  his  word, 
and  in  an  hour  he  returned  with  six  of  his 
servants,  bearing  sofas  and  cushions  and 
tables  and  tete-a-tetes,  and  what  not. 

The  family  seated  themselves  on  the 
furniture,  and,  clasping  his  knees,  over- 
whelmed him  with  thanks. 

"Dame!  Sacre! "  cried  he.  "It  is 
nothing,  this  thing  I  have  done.  What 
is  it  that  it  is  ?  Know,  then,  that  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I  have  the  happiness." 
Then,  turning  to  the  father:  "  Give  me  the 


"FROM   THE   FRENCH"  105 

purse.  I  left  it  as  a  collateral.  Now  that 
you  have  the  furniture,  you  will  not  need 
it.  But  that  angelic  being  there,  she  shall 
never  weep  again.  I  will  take  her  with 
me." 

"Ah!  "  said  the  mother;  "but  that  is 
like  you,  Count  WAllington.  You  mean 
that  she  is  to  be  a  maid  in  your  father's 
house?  Ah!  what  prosperity !" 

"Ah!  do  not  insult  the  most  beauti- 
ful being  who  ever  went  about  in  a  Lon- 
don fog.  She  a  servant?  Never!  I  will 
make  her  my  wife.  She  shall  be  Miledi 
Comptesse  Arnold  Clcil  Judas  Georges 
HErold  WAllington!" 

In  Southwark-on-Trent,  a  suburb  of 
London,  is  the  hospital  for  those  about  to 
commit  suicide.  Ring  the  bell  at  the  gate, 
and  you  will  be  admitted  by  sixteen 
flaxen-haired  ones  who  will  conduct  you 
to  the  governor  and  matron.  Need  I  say 
who  they  are,  or  whose  money  built  the 
institution? 

And  when  you  read  in  London  Ponch, 
among  the  court  news,  that  a  great  beauty 
has  been  presented  to  the  Queen  of  Eng- 


106  "FROM   THE    FRENCH" 

land,  London,  and  Ireland,  you  will  know 
that  it  is  the  Comptesse  WAllington.  She 
is  presented  at  all  the  levees,  and,  with 
her  husband,  the  handsome  and  philan- 
thropic Lord  WAllington,  is  the  cynosure 
of  all  English  eyes. 
It  is  good  to  be  good. 


XXII 

ON  THE  VALUE  OF  DOGMATIC 
UTTERANCE 

FROM  MY  "GUIDE  TO  YOUNG  AUTHORS" 

Y  dear  young  reader,  if  you  are 
thinking  of  launching  a  little  craft 
upon  the  troublous  sea  of  litera- 
ture, see  that  it  is  well  ballasted  with 
dogmatic  assertions.  (I  should  like  to 
continue  this  nautical  metaphor  further,  but 
I  am  such  a  landlubber  that  I  doubt  if  I 
should  be  able  to  mix  it  properly,  and 
what  interest  has  a  metaphor  if  it  be  not 
well  mixed?)  But  to  continue  in  plain 
English :  A  dogmatic  assertion  carries 
conviction  to  the  minds  of  most  unthink- 
ing people — in  other  words,  to  most  people. 
(You  and  I  don't  think,  dear  reader,  and 
107 


io8  ON   THE   VALUE 

is  it  likely  that  we  are  worse  than  the  rest 
of  mankind?) 

If  you  purpose  becoming  a  novelist  of 
character,  follow  my  directions,  and  your 
first  book  will  nail  your  reputation  to  the 
mast  of  public  opinion.  Fill  your  story 
full  of  such  utterances  as  these :  "  Chap- 
lain Dole  always  nodded  his  head  a  great 
many  times  to  express  affirmation.  This 
is  a  common  practice  with  persons  who 
are  a  little  hard  of  hearing."  (It  is  n't, 
and  yet  it  may  be,  for  all  I  know  to  the 
contrary;  but  it  will  carry  weight.  Nine 
persons  out  of  ten  will  say,  "  Why,  that  's 
so,  is  n't  it?  Have  n't  you  noticed  it?") 

It  doesn't  matter  what  you  say ;  if  you 
say  it  dogmatically  it  will  go.  Thus : 
"  She  walked  with  the  slow,  timid  step 
that  is  so  characteristic  of  English  spin- 
sters." That  's  a  fine  one,  for  it  may 
excite  contradiction,  and  contradiction  is 
advertisement.  Here  are  half  a  dozen 
examples :  "  He  tapped  his  forehead  with 
his  left  little  finger,  a  gesture  peculiar  to 
people  who  have  great  concentration  of 
mind."  "  His  half-closed  eyes  proclaimed 


OF   DOGMATIC    UTTERANCE  109 

him  a  shrewd  business  man.  Why  is  it 
that  your  keen  man  of  affairs  should  al- 
ways look  out  at  the  world  through  a  slit  ?  " 
"  The  child  spoke  in  that  raucous  tone 
of  voice  that  always  presages  cerebral 
trouble."  "  Miss  de 
Mure  waved  her  fan 
languidly,  with  a 
scarcely  perceptible 
wrist  motion,  a  sure 
indication  that  she  was 
about  to  capitulate,  but 
Mr.  Wroxhaemme,  not 
being  a  keen  observer, 
took  no  note  of  it." 
And,  "  He  spoke  but 
three  words,  yet  you 
sensed  that  he  was  an 
advocate.  Why  is  it 
that  a  lawyer  cannot 
conceal  his  profession  ? 
A  doctor  may  talk  all  day,  and  if  he  bar 
shop  his  vocation  will  not  be  detected ; 
but  a  lawyer  tunes  up  his  vocal  chords,  as 
it  were,  and  the  secret  is  out." 

If  all  the  above  specimens  of  "  observa- 


i  io  ON   THE   VALUE 

tion  "  were  introduced  into  your  story  the 
critics  would  unite  in  praising  your  keen- 
ness of  vision. 

Perhaps  you  would  like  to  figure  as  a 
musical  author.  Few  authors  know  any- 
thing about  music,  and  you  don't  have  to; 
dogmatism  and  alliteration  in  equal  parts 
will  take  the  trick.  Please  step  this  way 
(as  they  say  in  the  stores)  and  I  will  show 
you. 

"  She  played  Chopin  divinely — but  she 
did  not  care  to  clean  dishes.  Chopin  and 
care  of  a  house  do  not  coalesce.  A  girl 
may  love  Beethoven  and  yet  busy  herself 
with  baking;  Bach  and  the  Beatitudes  are 
not  antagonistic;  Haydn,  Handel,  and 
housekeeping  hunt  together;  Schumann 
and  Schubert  are  not  incompatible  with 
sweetness  and  serenity  of  demeanor  and  a 
love  for  sewing ;  Mozart  and  Mendelssohn 
may  be  admired  and  the  girl  will  also  love 
to  mend  stockings ;  Weber  and  work  may 
be  twins  :  but  Chopin  and  cooking,  Wagner 
and  washing,  Berlioz  or  Brahms  and  bast- 
ing, Dvorak  and  vulgar  employment — or 
Dvorak  and  darning  (according  as  you 


OF   DOGMATIC   UTTERANCE  in 

pronounce  Dvorak) — are  eternally  at  war. 
So,  when  I  have  said  that  Carlotta  was  a 
devotee  of  Chopin,  I  have  implied  that 
her  poor  old  mother  did  most  of  the 
housework,  while  the  sentimental  maiden 
coquetted  with  the  keys  continually." 
Fill  your  stories  with  such  bits  of  false 
observation,  and  ninety-nine  persons  out 
of  a  hundred  will  accept  them  at  their  face- 
value  ;  which  remark,  being  in  itself  a  dog- 
matic assertion,  will  doubtless  carry  weight 
and  conviction  with  it. 


XXIII 

THE   SAD    CASE    OF   DEACON 
PERKINS 

|T  is  now  some  fifteen  years  since 
the  dialect  story  assumed  undue 
prominence  in  the  literary  output 
of  the  time,  and  about  eight  since  it  be- 
came a  "  craze."  There  is  no  craze  with- 
out its  attendant  disease  or  ailment:  thus 
roller-skating  developed  "  roller's  heel  "  ; 
gum-chewing,  "  chewer's  jaw  "  ;  bicycling, 
the  "bicycle  face,"  and  later  the  "leg"; 
housekeeping,  "housemaid's  knee";  golf- 
playing,  "  idiocy  "  ;  and  so  on,  every  craze 
having  a  damaging  effect  upon  some  por- 
tion of  the  anatomy.  It  is  only  within  the 
last  year,  however,  that  it  has  been  dis- 
covered that  an  over-indulgence  in  dialect 

112 


THE  SAD  CASE  OF  DEACON  PERKINS    113 

stories  is  liable  to  bring  on  an  affection  of 
the  tongue. 

A  peculiarly  sad  case  and  the  most  nota- 
ble that  has  thus  far  been  brought  to  the 
attention  of  the  public  is  that  of  Deacon 
Azariah  Perkins  of  West  Hartford,  Con- 
necticut. 

Far  from  deploring  the  spread  of  the 
dialect  story,  he  reveled  in  it,  reading  all 
the  tales  that  he  could  get  hold  of  in  mag- 
azines or  circulating  library.  But  his  was 
not  a  healthy,  catholic  taste ;  he  had  ears 
and  eyes  for  one  dialect  alone — the  negro. 
For  him  Ian  Maclaren  and  Barrie  spread 
their  most  tempting  Scotch  jaw-breakers  in 
vain;  he  had  no  desire  for  them.  After 
fifteen  years  of  negro  dialect  in  every 
form  in  which  Southern  and  Northern 
writers  can  serve  it,  any  specialist  in  ner- 
vous disorders  could  have  told  the  deacon 
that  he  was  liable  to  have  "  negromania  "  ; 
but  West  Hartford  does  not  employ 
specialists,  and  so  the  stroke  came  un- 
heralded, with  all  the  suddenness  of 
apoplexy. 

Deacon  Perkins  has  always  been  able  to 


ii4    THE  SAD  CASE  OF  DEACON  PERKINS 

think  standing;  indeed,  he  has  been  called 
the  Chauncey  Depew  of  West  Hartford, 
and  no  revival  meeting  or  strawberry  fes- 


tival or  canned  clam-bake  was  considered 
a  success  unless  the  deacon's  ready  tongue 
took  part  in  the  exercises. 

Last  Sunday  they  had  a  children's  fes- 
tival in  the  Congregational  Church,  and 
after  the  children  had  made  an  end  of  re- 
citing and  singing,  the  deacon  was  called 
upon  for  a  few  remarks.  He  is  a  favorite 
with  young  and  old,  and  a  man  of  great 
purity  and  simplicity  of  character.  He 


THE  SAD  CASE  OF  DEACON  PERKINS    115 

arose  with  alacrity  and  walked  down  the 
isle  with  the  lumbering  gait  peculiar  to 
New-Englanders  who  have  struggled  with 
rocky  farms  the  best  part  of  their  lives. 
He  ascended  the  platform  steps,  inclined 
his  head  to  the  audience,  and  spoke  as 
follows : 

"Mah  deah  HT  chillun!  Yo'  kahnd 
sup'inten'ent  has  ast  me  to  mek  a  few  re- 
mahks."  (Subdued  titters  on  the  part  of 
the  scholars.)  "  Ah  don'  s'pose  you-all  '11 
b'lieve  me  w'en  Ah  say  dat  Ah  too  was 
once  a  liT  piccaninny  same  as  yo',  but  Ah 
was,  an'  Ah  'membeh  how  mah  ol'  mammy 
use  teh  tek  me  to  Sunny-school."  (Con- 
sternation on  the  part  of  the  superinten- 
dent and  teachers.) 

"  Now,  ef  you-all  wan'  to  go  to  heb'n 
w'en  yo'  die,  be  ci'cumspectious  'bout  de 
obsarvence  ob  de  eighth  c'man'ment.  Hit 
ain't  so  awful  wicked  ter  steal — dat  ain't 
hit,  but  hit  's  jes  nach'ly  tryin'  to  a  man's 
self-respec'  ter  git  cotched.  Don'  steal 
jes  fer  deviltry,  but  ef  yo'  is  'bleeged  ter 
steal,  study  de  wedder  repohts,  ac'  accord- 
in',  an' — don'  git  foun'  out — or  in,  eiver." 


n6    THE  SAD  CASE  OF  DEACON  PERKINS 

During  the  delivery  of  this  remark- 
able speech  the  deacon's  face  wore  his 
habitual  expression ;  a  kindly  light  shone 
in  his  eye,  a  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness 
played  about  his  lips,  and  he  evidently 
imagined  that  he  was  begging  them  to 
turn  from  their  evil  ways  and  seek  the 
narrow  path. 

But  at  this  juncture  Dr.  Pulcifer  of 
New  York,  the  eminent  neurologist,  who 
happened  to  be  spending  Sunday  in  West 
Hartford,  whispered  to  the  superintendent, 
and  on  receiving  an  affirmative  nod  to  his 
interrogation,  went  up  to  the  platform. 
He  held  out  his  hand  to  Deacon  Perkins, 
who  was  making  a  rhetorical  pause,  and 
said  kindly,  "  Good  morning,  uncle." 

"  Mornin',  sah,"  said  the  deacon,  bow- 
ing awkwardly  and  scratching  his  head. 

"  Can  you  direct  me  to  a  good  melon- 
patch?" 

Deacon  Perkins  gave  vent  to  an  unctu- 
ous negro  chuckle.  Then,  holding  up  his 
forefinger  to  enjoin  caution,  he  tiptoed 
off  the  platform,  closely  followed  by  the 
doctor;  and  before  nightfall  he  was  on 


THE  SAD  CASE  OF  DEACON  PERKINS    117 

his  way  to  a  private  hospital  for  nervous 
diseases,  where  rest  and  a  total  absten- 
tion from  negro-dialect  stories  is  expected 
to  restore  him  to  his  usual  sane  condition 
of  mind  in  a  short  time. 


XXIV 
THE   MISSING-WORD   BORE 

HEN,  there  's  that  bore  whose 
thoughts  come  by  freight,  and 
the  freight  is  always  late.  You 
know  what  's  coming,  that  is,  you  can  im- 
agine the  way-bill,  but  he  won't  let  you 
help  him  to  make  better  time,  and  runs 
his  train  of  thought  as  if  it  were  on  a  heavy 
grade. 

He  starts  to  tell  a  story,  blinking  his 
red  eyes,  meanwhile,  as  if  he  thought  that 
they  supplied  the  motive  power  for  his 
tongue.  To  make  listening  to  him  the 
harder,  he  generally  tells  a  very  old  story. 

"  One  day,  William  Makepeace — er — 
er— " 

"  Thackeray,"  you  say,  intending  to 
help  him.  Of  course  it  is  Thackeray,  and 

118 


THE   MISSING-WORD   BORE 


119 


he  was  going  to  tell  about  the  novelist  and 
the  Bowery  boy ;  but  he  is  so  pig-headed 
that  he  shifts  on  to  another  track. 

"  No  ;  Dickens,  Charles  Dickens.  One 
day,  when  Charles  Dickens  was  at  work 
on  'Bleak'— er—er—" 

"  '  Bleak  House '  ?  "  you  say. 

"  No !  "  he  snaps  ;  "  '  Dombey  and  Son.' 
One  day,  when  Charles  Dickens  was  at 
work  on  '  Dombey  and  Son,'  he  was  ap- 
proached by  his  biographer,  John — er — 
er— " 

"Forster?" 

"No;  it  was  n't 
his  biographer, 
either ;  it  was 
Edmund  Yates." 

You  now  take 
a  gleeful  pleasure 
in  seeing  how 
hopelessly  you 
can  make  him 
tangle  himself  up 
by  the  refusal  of 
your  help,  but 
he  does  n't  care. 


120  THE   MISSING-WORD   BORE 

He  '11  tell  it  in  his  own  words,  though 
the  heavens  fall  and  though  he  starts  a 
hundred  stories. 

"  Charles  Dickens  had  a  very  loud  way 
of — er — er — " 

"Dressing?" 

"  No,  no!  He  had  a  loud  way  of  talk- 
ing, and  he  and  Edmund — er — er — " 

"Yates?" 

"No,  sir;  Edmund  Spenser." 

Of  course  this  is  arrant  nonsense  on  the 
face  of  it,  but  he  won't  admit  that  he  's 
made  pi  of  his  story,  and  he  goes  on : 

"  Edmund  said  that  Charles — " 

"Dickens?" 

"No,  sir;  Charles  Reade.  Edmund 
said  that  Charles  Reade  thought  George 
— er— " 

"Meredith?" 

"  No ;  hang  it  all !  George  Eliot.  He 
thought  that  George  Eliot  never  wrote  a 
better  book  than  '  Silas  ' — er — " 

"'Marner'?" 

"  Not  at  all!      '  Silas  Lapham.'  " 

Now,  if  you  are  merciful,  or  if  you  are 
refinedly  cruel,  either  one,  you  will  allow 


THE   MISSING-WORD   BORE  121 

him  to  finish  his  story  in  peace,  and,  like 
as  not,  he  will  start  all  over  again  by  say- 
ing: "I  guess  I  inadvertently  got  hold 
of  the  wrong  name  at  the  beginning.  It 
was  not  Dickens,  as  you  said,  but  Thack- 
eray. Thackeray  was  one  day  walking 
along  the  Bowery  when  he  met  a  typ- 
ical— "  And  so  on  to  the  bitter  end. 

For  the  sake  of  speed,  do  not  ever  in- 
terrupt his  kind! 


XXV 
THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CRITIC 

MET  a  prominent  literary  critic 
the  other  evening.  A  review 
signed  with  his  name  or  even 
with  his  initials  is  apt  to  make  or  mar  the 
work  treated  therein. 

Now,  I  have  not  a  little  hypnotic 
power,  and  the  mischievous  idea  came 
into  my  head  to  hypnotize  him  and  make 
him  "  confess." 

We  were  sitting  in  the  reading-room  of 
an  up-town  club.  I  led  the  conversation 
to  the  subject  of  hypnotism,  and  soon 
gained  the  critic's  consent  to  be  put  into  a 
trance. 

I  did  not  influence  him  any  more  than 
to  put  his  mind  in  the  attitude  of  truthfully 
answering  what  questions  I  might  ask  him. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   A   CRITIC      123 

Q.  Which  do  you  prefer  to  criticize,  a 
book  that  has  already  been  reviewed  or 
one  that  is  perfectly  fresh  ? 

A.  Oh,  one  that  has  been  reviewed, 
and  the  oftener  the  better.  I  thus  gain 
some  idea  of  the  trend  of  critical  opinion 
and  shape  my  review  accordingly. 

Q.  Do  you  ever  run  counter  to  the 
general  sentiment? 

A.  Yes;  if  I  find  that  a  book  has  been 
damned  with  faint  praise,  I  sometimes 
laud  it  to  the  skies  and  thus  gain  a  repu- 
tation for  independence  that  is  very  useful 
to  me.  Or  if  a  book  has  been  heralded 
by  the  best  critics  of  both  countries  as 
"  the  book  of  the  year,"  I  sometimes  pick  it 
to  pieces,  taking  its  grammar  as  a  basis,  or 
some  other  point  that  I  think  I  can  attack 
without  injury  to  my  reputation  for  dis- 
cernment, and  again  I  score  a  victory  for 
my  independence. 

Q.  Why  don't  you  like  to  be  the  first 
to  review  a  new  book  ? 

A.  For  the  same  reason  that  most 
critics  hate  to — unless,  indeed,  they  are 
just  out  of  college  and  are  cock-sure  of 


124     THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  A   CRITIC 


everything.  I  fear  that  its  author  may 
be  one  of  the  numerous  coming  men.  I 
may  be  entirely  at  sea  about  the  book.  I 
prefer  to  get  some  idea  of  what  the  con- 
census of  the  best 
opinion  is. 

Q.  Then  you  do 
not  consider  your 
own  the  best  opin- 
ion? 

A.  No;  no  one 
critic's  opinion  is 
worth  much. 

Q.  Can  you  tell 
an  author  by  his 
style  ? 

A.  Always,  if  I  know  who  he  is  before 
I  begin  to  read.  But  it  is  hazardous  work 
to  say  such-and-such  a  work  is  by  such- 
and-such  a  man  unless  there  are  internal 
evidences  aside  from  the  style.  Once  a 
book  was  sent  to  me  for  criticism.  Before 
I  opened  it  I  lent  it  to  a  waggish  friend 
of  mine,  and  he  returned  it  next  day.  I 
looked  at  the  title-page,  saw  that  it  was  by 
an  absolutely  unknown  man  and  that  the 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CRITIC     125 

scene  was  laid  in  India,  and,  of  course,  I 
felt  safe  in  giving  it  fits  on  the  principle 
that  Rudyard  Kipling  is  not  likely  to  be 
equaled  in  this  generation  as  a  depicter 
of  Indian  life.  Well,  I  said  that  it  was 
painfully  crude  and  amateurish;  that  it 
might  do  for  the  "  Servants'  Own,"  but 
was  not  a  book  for  ladies  and  gentlemen ; 
that  it  had  absolutely  no  style  or  local  col- 
oring; that  the  scene  might  as  well  have 
been  laid  in  Kamchatka ;  and  that  it  was 
marked  by  but  one  thing,  audacity,  for  the 
author  had  borrowed  some  of  Kipling's 
characters — to  the  extent  of  the  names 
only.  In  short,  I  had  fun  with  that  book, 
for  I  knew  that  my  fellow-critics  would 
with  one  accord  turn  and  rend  it.  By 
mere  chance  I  did  n't  sign  it. 

Q.   And  who  had  written  the  book? 

A.  Why,  Kipling.  My  friend  had  cut 
another  name  out  of  a  book  and  had  pasted 
it  so  neatly  over  Kipling's  wherever  his 
occurred  that  I  was,  of  course,  taken  un- 
awares. You  can't  bank  on  style.  Look 
how  positive  people  were  Mark  Twain  had 
not  written  "  Jeanne  d'Arc." 


126     THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   A   CRITIC 

I  here  interrupted  the  flow  of  his  con- 
versation to  say :  "  Your  experience  is  not 
unlike  that  of  the  reviewer  who  criticized 
'  Silas  Lapham,'  and  who  had  a  sort  of  hazy 
notion  from  the  similarity  of  titles  that  it 
was  by  the  author  of  '  Silas  Marner.'  You 
may  remember,  it  created  a  good  deal  of 
amusement  at  the  time.  He  said  that  it 
was  a  mistake  for  George  Eliot  to  try 
to  write  a  novel  of  American  life;  that 
the  vital  essence — American  humor — was 
lacking;  that  Silas  Lapham  was  a  dull 
Englishman  transplanted  bodily  into  a 
very  British  Boston ;  that  his  daughters 
were  mere  puppets,  and  the  attempts  at 
Americanisms  doleful  in  the  extreme. 
He  concluded  by  saying  that  her  '  Romola ' 
had  shown  that  she  was  best  on  British 
soil,  and  that  she  would  better  keep  to  the 
snug  little  isle  in  the  future." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  with  a  grin  ;  "  I  remem- 
ber that.  It  was  my  first  criticism. 
Most  people  supposed  it  was  a  humorous 
skit,  even  the  editors  who  accepted  it,  but 
I  never  was  more  in  earnest.  I  was  young 
then." 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF   A   CRITIC      127 

Q.  If  you  received  a  book  to  review 
with  the  name  of  Hardy  on  the  title-page, 
would  you  give  it  a  good  send-off? 

A.  I  certainly  should,  for  I  am  a  great 
admirer  of  Hardy ;  but  I  should  prefer  to 
wait  until  some  one  else  had  done  so,  for 
fear  it  might  be  another  put-up  job  and 
turn  out  to  be  the  work  of  some  fifth-rate 
English  author. 

I  then  brought  him  out  of  his  trance. 
He  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  I  picked  up 
the  "  Saturday  Review "  from  the  table 
and  said,  "  Criticism  is  a  very  noble  call- 
ing." 

"  It  is  indeed,"  he  responded  earnestly. 
"  It  is  one  that  requires  great  insight  into 
human  nature,  absolute  independence,  and 
not  a  little  charity." 

With  which  beautiful  sentiments  he 
rose  and,  bowing,  left  the  room. 


XXVI 

HOW  'RASMUS  PAID  THE 
MORTGAGE 

A    DIALECT    STORY 


Oh,  de  wolf  an'  de  bar'  dey  had  a  great  fight. 

(Down  on  de  ribber  de  wil'  geese  is  callin'. ) 
De  har'  pulled  de  wolf's  teeth  so  's  he  could  n'  bite. 

(A-callin'  me  to  my  long  home  !) 
Said  de  wolf  to  de  har',  "  Don"  hit  so  hard." 

(De  dew  on  de  hollyhock  's  all  a-dryin'  !) 
An'  he  killed  de  har'  w'en  he  co't  him  oaf  his  guard. 

(Ah  '11  dry  up  an'  go  home  !) 

P  the  vista  formed  by  a  narrow, 
tortuous  Virginia  lane,  came 
Uncle  'Rasmus,  an  aged  darky, 
singing  one  of  the  songs  of  his  race  that 
never  grow  old — because  they  die  young, 

it  may  be. 

128 


HOW  'RASMUS  PAID  THE  MORTGAGE   129 

As  he  hobbled  along  the  path,  he  talked 
to  himself,  as  was  his  wont : 

"  Golly !  Ah  mus'  hurry  up,  o'  de  fo'kses 
won'  hab  no  dinnah ;  for,  be  jabers,  't  is 
mesilf  that  has  got  to  git  riddy  dthat  same. 
Och,  worra!  worra!  but 't  is  no  synekewer 
Oi  'm  havin',  an'  dthat  's  dther  trut'." 

Just  then  his  watch  struck  five  minutes 
to  six,  and  he  ran  off  toward  the  home- 
stead of  Squire  Lamar,  saying,  as  he  did 
so,  in  his  quaint  way :  "  Veepin'  Rachel ! 
der  boss  will  kick  der  live  out  mit  me." 

Before  the  war  Squire  Lamar  had  been 
the  richest  man  in  Oconee  County;  but 
the  conflict  had  ruined  him,  and  he  now 
had  little  except  his  plantation,  horses, 
and  stables.  He  lived  in  his  ancestral 
house,  which  was  heavily  mortgaged,  with 
his  wife  and  children. 

'Rasmus,  his  only  servant,  an  ex-slave, 
supported  the  family  by  collecting  dollars 
— at  night. 

As  he  ran  toward  the  house,  he  saw 
Squire  Lamar  on  the  veranda.  Just  then 
a  horseman  dashed  up.  He  was  the 
sheriff  of  Oconee  County.  'Rasmus  took 


130    HOW  'RASMUS  PAID  THE  MORTGAGE 

advantage  of  the  commotion,  and  ran  into 
the  kitchen  to  cook  the  dinner.  On  see- 
ing the  squire,  the  sheriff  called  out  to 
him :  "  The  mortgage  on  this  place  will 
be  foreclosed  if  the  $3600  due  is  not 
forthcoming  by  to-morrow  noon." 

"  Alas ! "  said  the  squire  ;  "  you  see  how 
we  are  situated.  I  have  n't  a  dollar,  and 
would  n't  know  how  to  earn  one  if  I  had." 

At  this  juncture,  'Rasmus,  who  had 
cooked  the  dinner  during  the  conversation, 
came  up  and  said:  "  Massa,  Ah  's  a  free 
man,  Ah  know  Ah  is ;  but  avick,  't  is  a 
mighty  shmall  wan  Oi  'd  be  if  I  would  n't 
help  out  a  poor  omadhaun  like  yerself. 
'  Caed  mille  fail  the  Bryn  Mawr  dolce  far 
niente.'  Zat  ees  mon  motto,  an'  so,  deah 
massah,  I  will  guarantee  to  git  de  money 
by  to-morrow  noon."  Then  turning  to 
the  sheriff,  he  said  in  a  manly  tone  that 
contrasted  ill  with  his  ragged  garments : 
"  Ye  maun  fash  awee,  laddie,  doon  the 
skim." 

After  a  few  more  words,  the  sheriff, 
who  was  really  a  kind  man  at  heart,  rode 
off,  saying  he  would  be  on  hand  the  next 


HOW  'RASMUS  PAID  THE  MORTGAGE    131 

day,  and  if  the  money  were  not  forthcom- 
ing, he  would  march  them  all  off  to  the 
county  jail,  ten  miles  distant.  After  blow- 
ing the  dinner-horn,  'Rasmus  hobbled  off 
to  his  humble  cottage. 


II 


ON  arriving  at  his  cabin,  'Rasmus  took  a 
bolster-case  full  of  dollars  from  under  the 
bed,  and  proceeded  to  count  them.  There 
were  just  $3000.  "  Now,  Ah  mus'  git 
$600  more  before  to-morrow,  or  else  me 
poor  masther  '11  be  wor-r-rkin'  in  the 
chain-gang.  Ach,  Himmel!"  said  the 
good  old  darky,  his  eyes  suffused  with 
tears,  "  if  dot  took  blace,  it  zeems  as  if 
mein  herz  would  break." 

He  calmly  decided  on  a  plan  of  action, 
however.  Waiting  until  night  had  flung 
over  the  earth  a  pall,  through  which  the 
silvery  moon  cast  shimmering  beams  aslant 
the  quivering  aspens  of  the  forest,  and  the 
snoring  of  the  birds  told  him  that  nature 
slept,  he  left  his  house  and  walked  briskly 
off  to  the  highway. 


132    HOW  'RASMUS  PAID  THE  MORTGAGE 

About  that  time  a  lawyer  was  riding 
along  the  road  on  horseback,  with  a  wallet 


containing  a  share  of  an  estate  worth  $600, 
which  he  had  secured  for  an  old  woman. 

'Rasmus    saw    the    traveler,    saw    the 
horse,  saw  the  wallet. 


HOW  'RASMUS  PAID  THE  MORTGAGE    133 

The  traveler  saw  no  one.  He  was 
blind — drunk. 

'Rasmus  cut  a  stout  bludgeon. 

The  traveler  ambled  on. 

'Rasmus  clasped  the  bludgeon. 

The  traveler  continued  to  amble. 

'Rasmus  stole  up  beside  him.    .    .    . 

The  traveler  lay  in  the  ditch. 

'Rasmus  jumped  on  the  horse,  the  wal- 
let in  his  hand,  and  galloped  home,  sta- 
bling the  beautiful  animal  in  his  cabin  to 
avoid  being  suspected  of  the  murder. 

Placing  his  shoe  in  front  of  the  one  win- 
dow of  the  cabin,  that  none  might  see  him, 
he  counted  the  money,  and  found  it 
amounted  to  just  $600,  which,  together 
with  the  $3000,  formed  the  sum  required 
by  the  sheriff.  This  made  him  so  happy 
that  he  picked  up  a  banjo  and  played 
Wagner's  "  Gotterdammerung "  through 
once  or  twice,  accompanying  himself  on 
his  throat  in  a  rich  tenor.  He  then  turned 
out  the  gas  and  retired,  to  sleep  as  only  a 
good,  unselfish  soul  can. 


134   HOW  'RASMUS  PAID  THE  MORTGAGE 


III 


IT  is  1 1  : 45  A.  M.  The  squire  and  his 
family,  who  have  heard  nothing  from 
'Rasmus,  are  on  the  veranda,  anxiously 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  sheriff. 

11:50  A.M.!  Is 'Rasmus  dead?  Has 
the  sheriff  relented  ? 

11:55.  Good  lack!  The  sheriff  is 
seen  galloping  toward  the  house,  and  yet 
there  is  no  sign  of  'Rasmus. 

That  individual,  who  is  nothing  if  not 
dramatic,  is  sitting  behind  the  house  on 
horseback,  awaiting  the  stroke  of  twelve. 

The  door  of  the  ormolu  cuckoo-clock  in 
the  kitchen  opens,  the  cuckoo  advances. 
At  her  first  note  the  sheriff  jumps  from 
his  horse;  at  the  second  he  walks  sternly 
upon  the  veranda;  at  the  third  he  asks 
for  the  money ;  at  the  fourth  and  fifth 
they  tell  him  that  'Rasmus  has  disap- 
peared ;  at  the  sixth,  seventh,  and  eighth 
he  handcuffs  them  all  together;  at  the 
ninth,  tenth,  and  eleventh  he  jumps  on  his 
horse  and  rides  off,  dragging  them  behind 


HOW  'RASMUS  PAID  THE  MORTGAGE    135 

him ;  and  at  the  twelfth  'Rasmus  trots 
leisurely  out  from  behind  the  house,  and, 
opening  a  carpet-bag,  counts  out  $3600 
in  silver! 

The  astonished  sheriff  puts  the  money 
into  his  pocket,  gives  Squire  Lamar  a  re- 
ceipt in  full  for  it,  unlocks  the  handcuffs, 
and  the  family  resume  their  wonted  places 
on  the  veranda. 

But  all  was  not  yet  done.  'Rasmus 
still  had  his  bludgeon  with  him,  and  a  few 
deft  strokes  on  the  sheriff's  head  were  all- 
sufficient.  'Rasmus  then  took  back  the 
money  and  gave  it  to  Squire  Lamar. 
Then  he  told  them  all  to  remain  perfectly 
still,  and  whistling  three  times,  an  amateur 
photographer  made  his  appearance,  ad- 
justed his  apparatus,  and  took  their  pic- 
tures. 

Sarony  could  have  wished  for  no  better 
subjects.  On  the  broad  veranda  lay 
the  old  lady  prone  on  the  floor,  reading 
the  "  Tallahassee  Inland  Mariner  "  ;  at  her 
side  sat  her  daughter,  Turk-fashion,  shel- 
ling a  pea;  while  the  son  and  heir  reclined 
near  by,  reading  an  account  by  a  Prussian 


136   HOW  'RASMUS  PAID  THE  MORTGAGE 

officer  of  the  third  battle  of  Bull  Run. 
The  father,  weighted  down  with  dollars, 
snored  in  the  background. 

And  beaming  on  them  all  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  done  his  best  and 
done  it  well,  old  'Rasmus  stood,  singing 
ventriloquially,  so  as  not  to  injure  the  pic- 
ture, this  negro  plantation  song: 

De  ribber  Jordan  I  can  see, 

Toujour  jamais,  toujour  jamais ; 
Mein  liebe  frau,  ach,  she  lofes  me, 

Fair  Jeannie  het  awa  ! 
Then  I  wen'  daown  the  caows  to  milk, 

Toujour  jamais,  toujour  jamais  ; 
Me  lika  banan'  as  softa  as  silk, 

Helas,  cordon,  by  gar ! 


XXVII 
'MIDST    ARMED    FOES 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "DUNN  TO  DEATH; 
OR,  THE  WEATHER  PROPHET'S  FATE," 
"  SARAH  THE  SALES-WOM-LADY  ;  OR, 
FROM  COUNTER  TO  COUNTESS,"  ETC. 

3AOUL  CHEVREUILLY  stood 
within  a  rude  hut  in  the  dark  re- 
cesses of  the  forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau.  By  his  side  stood  his  lady-love, 
the  beautiful  Perichole  Perihelion.  With- 
out, the  night  was  black  and  the  wind 
roared  as  it  is  wont  to  do  in  stories  of  this 
type. 

"  Dost  fear  aught,  my  precious?  "  asked 
Raoul,  gazing  at  the  French  face  of  the 
lovely  Parisian. 

"Why  should  I  fear  when  I  am  pro- 


ij8  'MIDST   ARMED    FOES 

tected  by  my  Raoul — how  do  you  pro- 
nounce Raoul,  anyway?"  replied  she. 

"  I  long  ago  gave  up  trying.  But, 
Perichole,  while  I  would  not  have  you  fear, 
yet  it  is  no  light  task  that  I  have  under- 
taken— your  defense  against  as  fierce  a 
pack  of  roistering  thieves  as  ever  beset 
the  forest  and  who  now  surround  this 
hut.  Let  but  the  wind  die  down  so  that 
they  may  be  heard,  and  they  will  hurl  ex- 
ecrations at  me  and  beat  down  the  door. 
Rene  Charpentier  seeks  my  life  because  I 
have  promised  to  be  yours,  or  rather  be- 
cause you  have  promised  to  be  mine. 
But  he  shall  kill  me  only  at  the  expense 
of  my  life.  Yea,  though  he  had  twice  a 
hundred  myrmidons  at  his  back  and  beck." 

For  answer  the  entrancing  girl  took  a 
mother-of-pearl  jews1  harp  off  the  wall  and 
played  "  Mile.  Rosie  O'Grady,"  "  There  '11 
be  a  chaud  temps  in  the  vieux  ville  ce 
soir,"  and  other  simple  French  ditties. 

Instead  of  admiring  her  pluck,  Raoul 
was  moved  to  fury,  and  he  cried  in  French, 
— this  whole  business  is  supposed  to  be  in 
French,  except  the  descriptions, — "  Is  it 


'MIDST   ARMED    FOES  139 

impossible  to  move  you  to  a  realization  of 

my  bravery?     Know,  then,  that,  save  for 

ourselves,  there    is    not    a    human    being 

within  three  miles 

of  this  hut.     I  had 

thought    that    you 

would  be  moved  to 

added  love  by  such 

an     exhibition     of 

bravery  on  my  part 

as     your     defense 

against  a   hundred 

bravos;  but,  viol  di 

gamba !   you   have 

no  imagination." 

"  And          Re'ne 
Charpentier?" 

"  There     is     no 
such  fellow.    He  is  but  a  pigment — I  mean 
figment  of  my  brain." 

Flinging  a  pair  of  arms  around  his 
French  neck/the  adorable  Perichole  kissed 
Raoul  again  and  once  more.  Then  she 
said,  "  My  adored  one,  that  you  were 
brave  I  suspected — are  you  not  the  hero 
of  a  French  novel?  But  I  never  knew 


140  'MIDST   ARMED    FOES 

that  you  were  such  a  lovely  liar.     Raoul, 
my  own  forevermore ! " 

And  her  beautiful  face  beamed  with  a 
love-light  whose  wick  had  been  newly 
trimmed. 


XXVIII 
AT   THE   SIGN    OF    THE    CYGNET 

A    COSMOPOLITAN    ROMANCE 
I 

T  was  late  spring  in  New  England. 
Buttercups  bespangled  the  grass 
and  nodded  and  smiled  at  the 
apple-blossoms  in  the  trees.  And  the 
apple-blossoms  nodded  in  return,  and  in  a 
few  days  fluttered  down  to  the  buttercups. 
On  the  front  stoop  of  an  old  baronial 
castle  in  the  south  of  France  stood  Armand 
Maria  Sylvestre  de  Faience  Pomade 
Pommedeterre.  He  had  been  standing 
there  all  the  morning,  he  knew  not  why. 
True,  he  looked  well,  but  he  would  have 
looked  as  well  anywhere  else,  and  he 
might  have  been  doing  something.  Still, 
there  is  time.  It  is  but  the  first  chapter. 
141 


142       AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   CYGNET 


\  \< 


Godiva  Churchill  Churchill,  of  Churchill 
Wolde,  Biddecumb  on  Baddecumb,  the 
only  daughter  of  her  widowed  mother  and 
widowered  father,  cantered  slowly  down 
the  roadway  that  led  to 
Churchill  Hall,  the  home 
of  the  Churchills  for 
seven  centuries.  Her 
right  cheek  was  over- 
flushed,  and  ever  and 
anon  she  bit  her  chin. 
England  could  boast 
of  no  prettier  girl 
than  Godiva,  nor  did 
England  boast 
of  it  as  much 
'  1  as  Godiva  did. 


II 

IT  is  summer  in 
New       England. 
The  as  yet  color- 
less spears  of  gold- 
enrod  give  warning  that 
theyearis  speeding  speedily. 


AT   THE   SIGN    OF   THE   CYGNET       143 

The  buttercups  fled  long  ago  with  the  ap- 
ple-blossoms, and  from  the  verdant  limbs 
of  the  apple-trees  hang  bullet-like  apples. 

Armand  Maria  Sylvestre  de  Faience 
Pomade  Pommedeterre  is  still  in  the  south 
of  France.  My  French  map  is  mislaid, 
and  I  cannot  spell  the  name  of  the  place 
he  is  at,  but  it  is  on  bottles,  I  think.  He 
has  left  the  front  stoop,  and  passes  his 
time  gazing  at  the  goldfish  in  the  fountain 
and  waiting  to  be  drawn  into  the  plot  of 
my  story.  Patient  man! 

Godiva  Churchill  Churchill,  of  Churchill 
Wolde,  Biddecumb  on  Baddecumb,  is  still 
in  the  saddle,  filled  with  vague  longings. 


Ill 


PURPLE  asters  fringe  the  highways  of 
New  England,  and  rosy  apples  depend 
from  the  boughs  in  countless  orchards.  (I 
think  that  scenery  is  my  strong  point.) 

Armand  Maria  Sylvestre  de  Faience 
Pomade  Pommedeterre  is  chafing  at  my 
delay,  but  continues  to  reside  in  the  south 
of  France  from  sheer  inertia. 


144      AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   CYGNET 

Godiva  Churchill  Churchill,  of  Churchill 
Wolde,  Biddecumb  on  Baddecumb,  has 
worn  out  the  left  fore  foot  of  her  horse  by 
her  incessant  cantering  upon  the  graveled 
paths  of  Churchill  Hall.  She  is  beginning 
to  feel  resentment  at  me  for  the  enforced 
monotony  of  her  existence,  but  heavens! 
how  can  I  help  it?  I  'm  trying  my  level 
best  to  evolve  a  plot. 


IV 


THE  flowers  that  gladdened  the  meads 
and  highways  and  shady  lanes  of  New 
England  are  gone.  Winter's  robes  of 
office  are  thrown  carelessly  over  the  land- 
scape, and  apples  in  innumerable  barrels 
stand  in  the  cellars,  waiting  for  better 
prices. 

The  reason  why  I  have  so  faithfully 
described  New  England  scenery  is  because 
that  's  the  only  kind  of  scenery  I  know 
anything  about. 

I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it,  but  this  is 
the  last  chapter,  and  blamed  if  I  can  think 
of  any  good  reason  for  the  departure  of' 


AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   CYGNET       145 

Armand  Maria  Sylvestre  de  Faience 
Pomade  Pommedeterre  from  the  south  of 
France.  He  can't  speak  a  word  of  English, 
and  if  you  're  thinking  of  Godiva,  she 
can't  speak  a  syllable  of  French. 

Poor  Godiva  Churchill  Churchill,  of 
Churchill  Wolde,  Biddecumb  on  Badde- 
cumb !  She  is  quite  lame  from  her  long- 
continued  exercise  in  the  saddle,  but  still 
canters  aimlessly  about.  She  has  become 
the  laughing-stock  of  all  the  tenants  of 
Churchill  Wolde,  and  it  's  all  my  fault. 

If  she  saw  Armand  she  'd  fall  in  love 
with  him,  but  I  can't  think  of  a  way  to 
bring  about  their  meeting.  That  's  what 
it  is  to  lack  invention. 

Just  imagine  me  trying  to  write  a  novel! 

Anyhow,  I  've  got  a  good  title  for  the 
story. 


XXIX 

A    SCOTCH    SKETCH 

HE  shadows  lengthened  on  old 
Ben  Nevis.  Surely  none  of  my 
readers  imagines  that  Ben  Nevis 
is  the  hero  of  my  simple  Scotch  sketch. 
If  so,  he  is  awa  off.  Ben  Nevis  is  a  moun- 
tain, and  I  have  flung  it  in  as  a  suitable 
background  for  the  following  conversation  : 
"  Mither,  mither,  ye  '11  mek  nae  doot  o' 
haein'  roast  beef  fer  supper,"  said  Hil- 
locks Kilspindie,  as  he  sat  on  the  old  bench 
in  front  of  their  cottage  door. 

With  a  troubled  look,  his  mother,  old 
Margaret  Kilspindie,  replied :  "  Man,  Hil- 
locks, div  ye  no  see  me  buyin'  the  haggis  ?  " 
"  Yes,   mither ;    but   I   'm   sair   sick    o' 
haggis.     Syne    Scotch    literatoor  kem   in 
it  's  hard  put  we  are  to  live  at  all.     I  say 
146 


A   SCOTCH    SKETCH  147 

may  the  plague  take  Maclaren  and  Barrie 
and  Crockett.  Before  they  began  to 
write" — and  in  his  excitement  Hillocks 
was  using  as  good  English  as  any  other 
Scotchman  in  real  life — "  roast  beef  and 
wheat  bread  and  chops  and  tomato-sauce 
and  other  Christian  dishes  were  good 
enough  for  us  all.  Then  came  the  influx 
of  Americans  who  wanted  to  see  the 
scenes  made  immortal  by  the  '  Bonnie 
Brier  Bush '  (I  wish  Ian  might  have 
scratched  his  writing-hand  upon  it)  and 
the  '  Window  in  Thrums '  (which  I  wish 
some  one  had  broken  before  Barrie  saw 
it),  and  now  it  is  haggis  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  haggis  at  noon,  and  haggis  at 
night,  and  Scotch  dialect  that  tears  my 
tongue  to  pieces  all  the  time." 

"  Hech,  my  bairnie  ;  but  thae  are  wrang 
words,  an'  fu'  o'  unchristian  bitterness." 

"Oh,  mother!  drop  your  '  hechs '  and 
your  '  fu's.'  There  are  no  Americans 
about  this  evening.  It  's  hard  enough  to 
talk  the  abominable  gibberish  when  we 
have  to,  without  keeping  it  up  all  the 
time.  But,  tell  me,  mother,  could  n't  you 


148  A   SCOTCH    SKETCH 

smuggle  in  a  little  roast  beef  to-night,  and 
let  me  eat  in  the  cellar?  "  And  a  plead- 
ing look  came  into  the  young  man's  eyes 
that  was  hard  to  resist. 

"  My  bairn — I  mean  my  boy,  I  'd  like 
to,  but  I  dare  not.  Maclaren's  inspectors 
are  due  here  any  minute,  and  I  could  ill 
afford  to  pay  the  heavy  fine  that  would  be 
levied  if  we  were  found  with  as  English  a 
thing  as  roast  beef  in  the  house.  No,  lad, 
we  maun  stick  to  parritch  and  haggis — I 
mean  we  must  stick  to  oatmeal  and  hag- 
gis." 

Just  then  the  sentry  that  was  stationed 
at  the  outskirts  of  the  village  to  warn  the 
villagers  of  the  approach  of  Americans 
gave  the  laugh  of  warning :  "  H-O  !  H-O  ! 
H-O!"  And,  with  a  bitter  look  on  his 
face,  and  a  shake  of  his  fist  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Loch  Lomond,  Ben  Nevis,  Ben 
Bolt,  and  various  other  bits  of  Scotch 
scenery  that  were  scattered  about,  Hillocks 
Kilspindie  said  to  his  mother :  "  Weel, 
as  surees  deith  a'  c'u'dna  help  it ;  tae  be 
sittin'  on  peens  for  mair  than  twa  oors, 
tryin'  tae  get  a  grup  o'  a  man's  heads.  (I 


A    SCOTCH    SKETCH 


149 


learned  that  this  morning,  mother.      Is  n't 
it  a  looloo?)  " 

"(Indeed    it    is,   my    son.      Look    out! 
The  Americans  are  almost  within  ear-shot.) 


Noo  we  've  tae  begin  an'  keep  it  up  till 
they  gang  awa,  for  there  mauna  be  a 
cheep  aboot  the  hoose,  for  Annie's  sake! 
Here  they  are." 

"Mither!      Mither!  if  ye  lo'e  me  bring 
me  mair  haggis." 


i$o  A   SCOTCH    SKETCH 

CHORUS  OF  AMERICANS.  Oh,  how 
adorably  Scotch ! 

"  Losh  keep  us  a',  but  the  childie  '11  eat 
his  mither  oot  o'  hoose  an'  hame  wi'  his 
haggis.  Ye  '11  find  some  o'  it  i'  the  cup- 
board." 

AMERICAN  (politely  to  HILLOCKS). 
Have  some  haggis  on  me. 

HILLOCKS  (with  a  canny  Scotch  leer). 
Thanks ;  but  I  prefer  a  plate. 


UNRELATED   STORIES— RELATED 


XXX 

EPHRATA    SYMONDS'S   DOUBLE 
LIFE 


I 


PHRATA  SYMONDS  was  a 
knave.  Of  that  there  was  no 
doubt.  It  stuck  out  all  over 
him.  His  face  was  a  chart  of  wickedness, 
and  it  was  his  open  boast  that  he  had  never 
done  any  good  in  his  life,  and,  please  the 
devil,  he  never  intended  doing  any.  He 
had  married  early  in  life  (in  a  fit  of  absent- 
mindedness),  but  he  had  long  since  for- 
saken his  wife  and  children. 

"  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still  for  idle 
hands  to  do"  ;  but,  to  speak  in  a  paradox, 
Satan  never  gave  him  any  employment, 
for  he  was  ever  busy — at  evil.  It  was 


154     EPHRATA  SYMONDS'S  DOUBLE  LIFE 


when  he  was  just  turned  fifty  that  he  was 
elected  a  member  of  the  Evil-doers'  Club. 
He  soon  became  popular,  and  upon  the 
incarceration  of  the  president  of  the  club, 
the  trusted  cashier  of  the  Tyninth  National 
Bank,  Symonds  was  unanimously  elected 
president  in  his  place. 

That  he  was  the  right  man  for  the  posi- 
tion he  immediately  proved  by  presenting 
the  club  with  a  fine  new  club-house,  which 
he  assured  them  was  not  his  to  give,  or  he 
would  not  have  presented  it.  In  the  first 
six  months  of  his  presidency  he  eloped 
with  two  married  women  at  once,  and  so 
managed  the  trip 
that  neither  sus- 
pected that  she  was 
not  quite  alone  in 
his  company.  He 
deserted  them  both 
in  the  West,  and 
returned  to  pose 
before  his  fellow 
club-members.  He 
diverted  to  his  use 
^-.  the  little  property 


EPHRATA  SYMONDS'S  DOUBLE  LIFE     155 

of  a  friendless  woman,  and  in  many  char- 
acteristic ways  showed  himself  to  be  thor- 
oughly bad. 

It  was  at  this  period  of  his  life  that  his 
death  came,  and  his  last  words  were :  "  I 
am  thankful  that  no  man  is  the  better  for 
my  having  lived." 

His  fellow  Evil-doers  mourned  his  de- 
parture with  sincerity.  They  felt  that  in 
losing  such  a  thoroughly  bad  man  they  had 
suffered  a  loss  which  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  repair.  As  the  secretary  feelingly 
put  it,"  Hell  is  the  worse  for  having  him." 
"Yes,"  said  another;  "he  was  admirably 
bad.  And  it  is  the  more  to  his  credit  that 
he  was  bad  in  spite  of  adverse  influences. 
His  parents  were  pious  people,  and 
Ephrata  had  every  temptation  to  lead  a 
life  of  virtue ;  but  in  the  face  of  all  the  ob- 
stacles that  his  father  put  in  the  way  of  his 
becoming  vicious,  he  persevered,  and  yes- 
terday I  had  the  honor  of  telling  his  old 
mother  that  her  son  was  undoubtedly  the 
most  wicked  man  in  New  York.  It  made 
quite  an  impression  on  her.  We  shall 
ne'er  see  his  like  again." 


156    EPHRATA  SYMONDS'S  DOUBLE  LIFE 

The  parlors  of  the  Evil-doers'  Club  were 
draped  in  black,  and  mock  resolutions  of 
sympathy  were  sent  to  his  deserted  wife. 


II 


GREAT  was  the  chagrin  of  the  members 
of  the  club  when  it  began  to  be  bruited 
among  them  that  Symonds  had  been  lead- 
ing a  double  life ;  that  his  wickedness  was 
but  a  cloak  to  hide  his  goodness.  The 
rumors  were  at  first  pooh-poohed,  but 
when  it  was  remembered  that  every  third 
week  he  had  always  absented  himself  from 
town,  the  story  that  he  was  really  a  good 
man  began  to  wear  an  air  of  truth.  Detec- 
tives were  set  to  work,  and  the  damning 
proofs  of  his  deceitful  goodness  multi- 
plied rapidly,  and  at  last  the  facts  came 
out,  but  only  to  the  club-members.  They 
felt  that  it  would  not  be  creditable  to  allow 
such  scandalous  stories  to  be  repeated  to 
the  world  at  large,  which  would  only  too 
willingly  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  them 
on  learning  that  their  chief  officer  had,  in 
spite  of  every  lure,  gone  right.  Some 


EPHRATA  SYMONDS'S  DOUBLE  LIFE     157 

might  even  go  so  far  as  to  insinuate  that 
maybe  other  members  were  better  than 
they  seemed  to  be.  No;  Symonds's  dis- 
reputable goodness  should  continue  to  be  as 
well  cloaked  as  he  had  cloaked  it  while  alive. 

The  story  of  his  goodness  is  as  follows : 
It  seems  that  every  third  week  of  his  life 
had  been  spent  in  Boston,  and  while  there 
he  had  earned  a  large  income  as  a  life-in- 
surance agent.  It  was  his  wont  to  spend 
this  money  in  doing  good.  Nothing  was 
known  in  the  Hub  of  his  private  life.  He 
lived  at  the  Adams  House,  and  cultivated 
an  austerity  of  manner  that  repelled  people  ; 
but  by  underhand  means  he  contrived  to 
ameliorate  a  deal  of  misery. 

Having  become  convinced  in  his  early 
youth  that  unostentatious  benevolence 
was  preferable  to  a  life  of  good  works 
blazoned  forth  to  an  admiring  world,  he 
had  habituated  himself  to  every  form  of 
vice,  in  order,  under  cover  of  it,  to  pursue 
unobserved  the  efforts  he  was  to  put  forth 
for  the  good  of  his  fellow-men.  And  he 
had  well  succeeded.  When  Elias  Hap- 
good,  who  had  for  thirty  years  subsisted 


158     EPHRATA  SYMONDS'S  DOUBLE  LIFE 

on  the  bounty  of  an  unknown  benefactor, 
read  in  the  Boston  "Herald"  an  account  of 
the  death  of  Ephrata  Symonds,  "  the 
wickedest  man  in  New  York,"  he  breathed 
a  prayer  of  thankfulness  that  the  world 
was  rid  of  such  a  man,  little  knowing  that 
he  was  misjudging  his  best  friend.  And 
Elias  was  but  one  of  scores  that  had  been 
similarly  benefited.  Symonds's  charities 
had  been  literally  endless  and  invariably 
anonymous.  And  now,  after  having,  as 
it  were,  lived  down  his  good  works,  it  was 
a  little  hard  that  death  should  have  torn 
from  him  the  lifelong  mask  of  deceit,  and 
set  him  before  his  fellow- members  for  what 
he  was — a  thoroughly  good  man. 


Ill 


IT  was  a  special  business  meeting  of  the 
Evil-doers'  Club.  The  chairman  rapped 
for  order,  and  the  secretary  read  the  fol- 
lowing resolutions : 

"WHEREAS,  It  has  pleased  Nature  to 
take  from  among  us  Ephrata  Symonds,  for 
some  time  our  honored  president; 


EPHRATA  SYMOXDS'S  DOUBLE  LIFE     159 

"  WHEREAS,  We  had  always  supposed 
him  to  be  a  man  of  the  most  exemplary 
wickedness,  a  man  before  whom  all  Evil- 
doers might  well  hide  their  diminished 
heads  in  despair  of  ever  approaching  his 
level  of  degradation ; 

"  WHEREAS,  His  life  had  always  seemed 
to  us  a  perfectly  unbroken  and  singularly 
consistent  chain  of  crimes  and  enormities 
to  be  emulated  by  us  all ;  and 

"  WHEREAS,  It  has  lately  come  to  be 
known  that  his  wickedness  was  but  a  mask 
to  hide  a  life  of  well-doing,  occupied  in 
its  every  third  week  with  deeds  of  kind- 
ness and  generosity ; 

"  Therefore  be  it  Resolved,  That  we,  as 
members  of  this  club,  have  been  most 
shamefully  imposed  upon; 

"  Resolved,  That  we  hereby  express  our 
contempt  for  a  man  who,  with  every  incen- 
tive to  be  always  bad,  should  have  so  far 
forgotten  himself  as  to  lead  a  third  of  a 
worthy  life." 

The  secretary  had  not  finished  reading 
the  resolutions  when  a  messenger  brought 
in  a  letter  which  he  handed  to  the  chair- 


160     EPHRATA  SYMONDS'S  DOUBLE  LIFE 

man  as  the  clock  pointed  to  eight  fifty- 
eight. 

It  ran  in  this  fashion : 

FELLOW-MEMBERS  :  It  is,  by  the  time  of  read- 
ing this,  probably  plain  to  you  that  you  have  been 
taken  in  by  me,  and  that,  so  far  from  my  really 
having  been  a  wicked  person,  I  was  a  credit  to  my 
race  and  time. 

True  to  my  desire  that  to  the  rest  of  the  world  I 
should  be  accounted  a  bad  man,  I  have  caused  to 
be  delivered  with  this  letter  a  box.  It  works  its 
purpose  at  nine  o'clock.  Sit  where  you  are  and  do 
not  attempt  to  escape.  The  secret  of  my  goodness 
rests,  and  shall  rest,  with  you. 

Yours  insincerely,       EPHRATA  SYMONDS. 

As  the  chairman  finished  reading  he 
glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  on  the 
stroke  of  nine!  He  seized  the  box,  and 
with  a  wild  cry  attempted  to  throw  it 
through  the  window,  but  it  was  too  late. 
A  whirring  noise  was  heard,  followed  by  a 
terrific  explosion,  that  left  of  club-house  and 
-members  naught  save  a  hole  in  the  ground. 

Symonds's  culpable  goodness  remained 
unknown  to  the  world. 


XXXI 
A   STRANGER  TO    LUCK 

HEN  I  got  off  the  train  at  Darby- 
ville,  which,  as  all  will  remember, 
is  the  junction  of  the  L.  M.  &  N. 
and  O.  P.  &  Q.  railroads,  and  found  that, 
owing  to  an  accident,  it  would  be  an  hour 
before  the  train  came  in  on  the  latter  road, 
I  was  vexed.  Although  ordinarily  my 
own  thoughts  are  agreeable  companions, 
yet  events  of  the  past  week,  in  which  my 
good  judgment  had  not  borne  a  conspicu- 
ous part,  made  it  likely  that  for  the  nonce 
these  thoughts  of  mine  would  be  more  or 
less  unpleasant,  and  so  I  cast  about  for 
some  human  nature  to  study. 

At  one  end  of  the  platform  three  or  four 
farmers  were  seated  upon  trunks.     They 
"  161 


162  A   STRANGER   TO   LUCK 

were  alert-looking  men,  and,  like  me,  were 
waiting  for  the  train.  As  I  neared  them, 
one  of  their  number,  a  tall,  lanky,  sharp- 
boned,  knife-featured  fellow,  impertur- 
bably  good-natured-looking,  and  with  an 
expression  of  more  than  ordinary  intelli- 
gence in  his  eyes,  left  them  and  sauntered 
off  down  the  road  with  long,  irregular 
strides. 

It  was  one  of  those  calm,  clear,  dry  days 
when  sounds  carry  well,  and  although  I 
did  not  join  them,  yet  I  heard  every  word 
of  the  conversation.  Indeed,  as  their 
glances  from  time  to  time  showed,  they 
were  not  averse  to  having  an  auditor. 

"  It  's  cur'us,"  said  one  of  them,  a 
ruddy-faced  man  with  a  white  beard,  "  how 
unlucky  a  man  c'n  be  an'  yit  manage  to 
live."  His  eyes  followed  the  shambling 
figure  that  had  just  left  them.  "  I  '11  help 
myself  to  some  of  thet  terbacker,  Jed. 
Left  mine  to  hum,  an'  I  have  the  teeth- 
ache — awful."  This  to  a  short,  stout  man 
with  a  smooth  face,  who  had  just  taken  a 
liberal  mouthful  of  tobacco  from  a  paper 
that  he  drew  from  his  hip-pocket. 


A   STRANGER   TO    LUCK  163 

"  He'p  "se'f!"  said  the  one  addressed. 
Then  he  added,  "  Meanin'  Seth,  I  s'pose?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  b'lieve 
thet  ef  Seth  was  to  hev  anythin'  really 
fort'nit  happen  to  him,  it  would  throw  him 
off  his  balance." 

"  'N'  yit  ther'  never  was  a  feller  thet 
better  deserved  good  luck  than  Seth. 
Most  obligin'  man  I  ever  saw.  Ain't  no 
fool,  nuther,"  remarked  the  third  and  last 
member  of  the  group,  a  typical  Uncle  Sam 
in  appearance,  with  prominent  front  teeth, 
and  a  habit  of  laughing  dryly  at  everything 
that  he  or  any  one  else  said. 

"  He  don't  suffer  fer  the  actooal  needs 
of  life,  doos  he?"  asked  the  stout  man 
whom  the  others  called  Jed. 

"  No — oh,  no,"  answered  Sam  (for  it 
turned  out  that  so  the  typical  Yankee  was 
called).  "  No;  he  gits  enough  to  eat  and 
wear,  but  he  never  hez  a  cent  to  lay  by, 
and  never  will." 

"Don't  drink,  doos  he?"  asked  Jed, 
who  seemed  to  belong  to  a  different  town 
from  the  one  wherein  the  others  and  Seth 
abode.  His  acquaintance  with  the  one 


1 64  A   STRANGER   TO   LUCK 

under  discussion  was  evidently  by  no  means 
intimate. 

"  No ;  he  ain't  got  no  vices  't  I  know  of. 
Jes'  onlucky." 

"  It  's  s'prisin'  haow  tantalizin'ly  clus 
good  fortin  hez  come  to  him — different 
times,"  said  the  one  who  had  asked  for  the 
tobacco,  and  whom  the  others  called  Silas. 

"You  're  right,  Silas,"  assented  Sam. 
"  He  c'n  come  nearer  to  good  luck  'thout 
techin'  it  'an  any  man  I  ever  see." 

"  Don't  seem  to  worrit  him  much,"  said 
Jed.  "  He  seems  cheerful." 

"  Don't  nothin'  worrit  him"  Sam  con- 
tinued. "  Most  easy-goin'  man  on  the  face 
of  the  airth.  He  don't  ask  fer  sympathy. 
He  takes  great  doses  of  bad  luck  's  ef 
't  was  good  fer  his  health." 

"  Never  fergit,"  said  Silas,  "  the  time 
when  he  bought  a  fine  new  milch  Jarsey 
at  auction  fer  five  dollars.  Why,  he  hed 
two  offers  fer  her  nex'  day,  an'  I  know  one 
of  'em  was  forty  dollars — " 

"  Well,  naow  I  call  that  purty  lucky," 
interrupted  Jed. 

"Wait!"  continued  Silas,  seating  him- 


A  STRANGER  TO   LUCK 


165 


self  more  comfortably  on  a  trunk.     "  Seth 

he  would  n't  sell.     Said  he  never  did  hev 

his  fill  of  milk,  an'  he  was  goin'  to  keep 

her.     Very    nex'    day,    b'    George!     she 

choked  on  a  turnip,  an'  when 

he  faound  her  she  was  cold. 

Man  sympathized  with  him. 

'Too  bad,    Seth,'  says   he; 

'  ye  Y    aout   forty    dollars.' 

'  Five  's  all   I   figger  it  at,' 

says  Seth.     '  Did  n't  keer  to 

sell.' 

"  Closest  call  'at  fortune 
ever  made  him  was  time  his 
uncle  Ralzemon  aout  West 
died  and  left  him  $5000. 
Everybody  was  glad,  fer 
every  one  likes  Seth.  I  was 
with  him  when  he  got  the 
letter  f'om  the  lawyer 
sayin'  it  was  all  in  gold, 
an'  hed  be'n  expressed  to  him,  thet  bein' 
one  of  the  terms  of  the  will.  Mos'  shif- 
less  way  of  sendin'  it,  I  thought,"  declared 
Silas,  compressing  his  lips.  "  '  What  ye 
goin'  to  do  with  it,  Seth?'  says  I.  'Put 


166  A   STRANGER   TO   LUCK 

it  in  the  bank  ?  '  '  Ain't  got  it  yit,'  says 
he;  'an',  what  's  more,  I  never  will.' 
'Why  d'  ye  think  so?'  says  I.  'On 
gin'al  principles,'  says  he,  a-laafin'. 

"  Sure  'nough,  a  few  days  later  it  was 
printed  in  the  paper  thet  a  train  aout  in 
Wisconsin  lied  be'n  held  up  by  robbers. 
I  was  in  the  post-office  when  I  saw  it  in 
the  paper,  an'  Seth  was  there  too.  '  Bet 
ye  a  cooky  thet  my  $5000  was  on  thet 
train,'  says  he.  '  Won't  take  ye,'  says  I ; 
'  fer  I  '11  bet  ye  five  dollars  't  was,  myse'f.' 
'I  '11  take  ye,'  says  he.  B'  George!  he 
lost  the  five  and  the  $5000  too,  fer  't  was 
on  the  train,  an'  they  never  could  git  a 
trace  of  it.  The  robbers  hed  took  to  the 
woods,  an1  they  never  found  'em." 

"  Well,  I  swan ! "  ejaculated  Jed,  chew- 
ing hard,  and  regarding  with  ominous  look 
a  knot-hole  in  the  platform. 

Silas  continued :  "  I  says,  '  I  'm  sorry 
fer  ye,  Seth.'  Says  he :  '  I  ain't  no  poorer 
'an  I  was  before  I  heard  he  'd  left  it  to 
me.'" 

"  He  was  aout  the  five  dollars  he  bet, 
though,"  said  Jed. 


A   STRANGER   TO   LUCK  167 

"  Wa'  n't,  nuther,"  said  Silas,  rather 
shamefacedly.  "  I  told  him  thet  the  bet 
was  off." 

"Why  did  n't  he  sue  the  comp'ny?" 
asked  Jed. 

"  'At  's  what  I  advised  him  doin',  but 
he  said  't  wa'  n't  no  use." 

"  I  think  I  heard  'baout  his  havin'  a 
fortin  left  him  at  the  time,  but  I  thought 
it  was  f'om  a  cousin  down  in  South 
America,"  Jed  went  on,  looking  inquir- 
ingly at  Sam. 

"  Heh,  heh!  thet  was  another  time," 
said  Sam,  with  his  dry  little  laugh. 
"  Good  nation !  ef  all  the  luck  thet  's 
threatened  to  hit  him  hed  done  it,  he  'd  be 
the  richest  man  in  this  caounty.  I  tell  ye, 
good  luck  's  allers  a-sniffin'  at  his  heels, 
but  he  don't  never  git  bit.  This  time  he 
got  a  letter  f'om  his  cousin,  tellin'  him 
he  'd  allers  felt  sorry  he  hed  sech  poor  luck, 
an'  he  'd  made  him  sole  heir  of  his  estate, 
prob'ly  wuth  a  couple  o'  thousand  dollars. 
He  hed  some  oncurable  disease,  he  wrote, 
an'  the  doctors  did  n't  give  him  over  three 
months  to  live — " 


168  A   STRANGER   TO   LUCK 

"  S'pose  he  lived  forever,"  put  in  Jed, 
chuckling. 

"  No,  sir;  he  died  in  good  shape,  an'  in 
fac'  he  bettered  his  word,  for  he  did  n't 
live  two  months  f'om  the  time  he  wrote  to 
Seth ;  but  I  'm  blessed  ef  they  did  n't  find 
there  was  some  claim  against  the  estate 
thet  et  it  all  up.  Well,  sir,  I  never  saw 
any  one  laugh  so  hard  ez  Seth  when  he 
heard  the  news.  It  struck  him  ez  a  dret- 
ful  good  joke." 

"  He  must  hev  a  purty  paowerful  sense 
of  the  ridikerlus,"  said  Jed,  dryly. 

"  Well,  he  hez,"  assented  Sam,  rubbing 
his  knees  with  his  horny  hands.  "  Ain't 
no  better  comp'ny  'an  Seth.  Ain't  never 
daownhearted." 

After  a  moment's  silence  Silas  smiled, 
and,  closing  his  eyes,  pinched  them  be- 
tween thumb  and  forefinger  as  if  calling 
up  some  pleasing  recollection.  At  last  he 
said :  "  Ye  know,  Seth  allers  works  by  the 
day.  He  gin'ally  has  enough  to  do  to 
keep  him  busy,  an'  allers  doos  his  work  up 
slick,  but  he  never  hed  stiddy  employ- 
ment, on'y  once,  an'  then  it  lasted  on'y 


A   STRANGER   TO   LUCK  169 

one  day.  'Member  that,  Sam?  Time  he 
went  to  work  at  the  Nutmeg  State  clock- 
shop  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  laughed  Sam,  driving  a 
loose  nail  into  the  platform  with  his  heel. 

"  Stiddy  employment  fer  a  day,  eh?" 
said  Jed,  grinning.  "  Thet  's  'baout  ez 
stiddy  ez  my  hired  man,  an'  he  ain't  stiddy 
at  all." 

"  It  was  this  way,"  Silas  went  on. 
"  Seth  allers  was  purty  slick  at  han'lin' 
tools,  an'  Zenas  Jordan  was  foreman  of  the 
shop,  an'  he  offered  Seth  a  place  there  at 
twelve  dollars  a  week,  which  was  purty 
good  pay  an'  more  'n  Seth  could  make 
outside,  'thout  it  was  hayin'-time.  I  met 
him  on  his  way  to  work  fust  mornin'. 
'  Well,  luck  's  with  you  this  time,  Seth,' 
says  I.  '  Sh ! '  says  he.  '  Don't  say  thet, 
or  I  '11  lose  my  job  sure.  It 's  jes  better  'n 
nothin',  thet  's  all.  Don't  call  it  good 
luck ' ;  an'  he  laafed  an'  went  along 
a-whistlin'.  B'  Gosht!  ef  the  blamed  ol' 
shop  did  n't  burn  daown  thet  very  night, 
an',  ez  ye  know,  they  never  rebuilt.  Seth 
he  come  to  me  nex'  day,  an'  he  says, 


170  A  STRANGER  TO   LUCK 

kinder  reproachful :  '  You  'd  orter  held  yer 
tongue,  Silas.  I  'd  be'n  hopin'  thet  was  a 
stroke  er  luck  thet  hed  hit  me  by  mistake, 
an'  I  was  n't  goin'  to  whisper  its  name  for 
fear  it  'd  reckernize  me  an'  leave  me,  and 
you  hed  to  go  an'  yell  it  aout  when  ye  met 
me.'  "  And  Silas  laughed  heartily  at  rec- 
ollection of  the  whimsicality. 

"  Cur'us,  ain't  it,  what  a  grudge  luck 
doos  hev  against  some  men?"  remarked 
Jed,  rubbing  his  smooth  chin  meditatively. 

Far  down  the  valley  I  heard  the  faint 
whistle  of  a  locomotive. 

"  Las'  story  they  tell  'baout'  Seth  's 
this,"  Silas  said,  rising  and  stretching  him- 
self, and  then  leaning  against  the  wall  of 
the  station.  "  He  's  a  very  good  judge  o' 
poultry,  an',  in  fac',  he  gin'ally  judges  at 
the  caounty  fair  every  fall.  Well,  a  man 
daown  in  Ansony  told  him  he  'd  pay  him 
ten  dollars  apiece  for  a  couple  of  fine 
thoroughbred  Plymouth  Rock  roosters. 
Seth  knowed  a  man  daown  Smithfield 
way  named  Jones  thet  owned  some  full- 
blooded  stock,  but  ez  he  on'y  kep'  'em  fer 
home  use  he  did  n't  set  a  fancy  price  on 


A   STRANGER   TO    LUCK  171 

'em,  an'  Seth  knowed  he  could  git  'em  fer 
seventy-five  cents  or  a  dollar  apiece. 
Well,  it  happened  a  day  or  two  later  he 
was  engaged  to  do  a  day's  work  fer  this 
man  Jones,  an'  he  went  daown  there.  He 
see  two  all-fired  fine  roosters  a-struttin' 
raound  the  place,  an'  he  cal'lated  to  buy 
them ;  but  fer  some  reason  he  did  n't  say 
nothin'  'baout  it  jes  then  to  Jones,  but 
went  to  work  at  choppin'  or  sawin'  or 
whatever  it  was  he  was  doin'." 

"Said  nothin',  did  he?  Must  ha' 
sawed  wood,  then,"  interrupted  Jed,  look- 
ing over  at  me  and  winking. 

"  Sure !  Well,  when  it  kem  time  fer  din- 
ner he  hed  got  up  a  good  appetite,  an'  he 
was  glad  to  set  daown  to  table,  fer  Jones 
is  a  purty  good  feeder  an'  likes  to  see 
people  hev  enough.  Hed  stewed  chicken 
fer  dinner,  an'  Seth  says  he  never  enjoyed 
any  so  much  in  his  life.  After  dinner  he 
says,  '  By  the  way,  Jones,  what  '11  ye  take 
fer  those  two  Plymouth  Rock  roosters  't 
I  saw  this  mornin'  ? '  Jones  bust  aout 
a-laafin',  an'  he  says,  '  Ye  kin  take  what  's 
left  on  'em  home  in  a  basket  an'  welcome ! ' 


172  A   STRANGER   TO   LUCK 

Blamed  ef  Seth  bed  n't  be'n  eatin'  a  dinner 
that  cost  him  nigh  on  to  twenty  dollars." 

"  Thet  must  hev  riled  him  some,"  re- 
marked Jed. 

"No,  sir;  he  never  seemed  to  realize 
the  sitooation." 


XXXII 
CUPID    ON   RUNNERS 


ITTLEWOOD  PHILLIPS  had 
been  in  love  with  Mildred  Far- 
rington  for  two  years,  ever  since 
he  first  met  her  at  the  Hollowells'  card- 
party.  He  had  no  good  reason  to  doubt 
that  his  love  was  returned,  yet  so  fearful 
was  he  that  he  had  misread  her  feelings  that 
he  had  never  hinted  that  she  was  more  to 
him  than  any  of  the  girls  he  met  at  the 
church  sociables  and  card-parties  in  New- 
ington. 

So  matters  stood  when  a  snowfall  that 
brought  sleighing  in  its  wake  visited  New- 
ington,  and  Littlewood  became  conscious 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  actually  asked  Miss 
Farrington  to  take  a  ride  with  him.  Of 


174  CUPID    ON    RUNNERS 

course  he  must  perforce  bring  matters  to 
a  crisis  now. 

The  evening  was  soon  at  hand.  A 
crescent  moon  shone  in  the  west,  and  the 
stars  were  cold  and  scintillating.  He 
walked  to  the  livery-stable  and  asked  for 
the  cutter,  and  a  few  moments  later  he 
was  driving  a  handsome  chestnut  to  the 
house  where  his  thought  spent  most  of  the 
time. 

Miss  Farrington  kept  him  waiting  a 
good  half-hour,  but  he  reflected  that  it  was 
the  privilege  of  her  glorious  sex,  and  it 
only  made  him  love  her  the  more.  If  she 
had  come  out  and  placed  her  dainty  foot 
upon  his  neck  he  would  have  been  over- 
come with  rapture. 

It  was  cold  waiting,  so  he  got  out  and 
hitched  his  horse  and  paced  in  front  of  her 
house,  her  faithful  sentinel  until  death — if 
need  be.  Not  that  there  was  any  reason 
to  think  that  his  services  would  be  re- 
quired, but  it  pleased  his  self-love  to  ima- 
gine himself  dying  for  this  lovely  being  of 
whom  his  tongue  stood  in  such  awe  that  it 
could  scarce  loose  itself  in  her  presence. 


CUPID    ON    RUNNERS  175 

At  last  she  appears.  The  restive  horse 
slants  his  ears  at  her  and  paws  the  ground 
in  admiration  of  her  beauty,  for  Mildred 
was  as  pretty  as  regular  features,  a  fair 
skin,  and  melting  eyes  could  make  her. 

Littlewood  handed  her  into  the  sleigh, 
stepped  in  himself,  tucked  in  the  robes, 
and  chirruped  to  the  horse. 

That  intelligent  animal  did  not  move. 
A  flush  of  mortification  overspread  the 
face  of  the  would-be  amorous  swain.  A 
balky  horse,  and  at  the  start!  What 
chance  would  he  have  to  deliver  his  pre- 
cious message  that  was  to  make  two  hearts 
happy?  He  clicked  again  to  the  horse, 
but  again  the  horse  continued  to  stand 
still. 

"  You  might  unhitch  him,  Mr.  Phillips. 
That  would  help,"  said  Mildred,  in  her 
sweet  voice. 

"Oh,  yes — t-to  be  sure!  I  must  have 
tied  him.  I  mean  I — er — I  di — I  think  I 
did  hitch — er — " 

"  There  seems  to  have  been  a  hitch 
somewhere,"  she  answered. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  sleigh  and  looked 


176  CUPID    ON    RUNNERS 

over  his  shoulder  at  her  in  a  startled  way. 
Could  she  mean  anything?  Was  this 
encouragement?  Oh,  no!  It  was  too 
soon.  (Too  soon,  and  he  had  been  in  love 
two  years ! )  He  unhitched  the  horse  and 
once  more  placed  himself  beside  his  loved 
one. 

The  frosty  night  seemed  to  have  set  a 
seal  upon  her  lips,  for  as  they  sped  over 
the  crunching  snow  and  left  the  town  be- 
hind them  she  was  silent. 

"  I  must  have  offended  her.  I  've  prob- 
ably made  a  break  of  some  kind,"  said 
Littlewood  to  himself.  "  How  unfortu- 
nate !  But  I  must  tell  her  to-night.  It  is 
now  or  never.  She  knows  I  never  took 
anybody  but  my  mother  sleigh-riding 
before." 

Then  began  a  process  of  nerving  himself 
to  the  avowal.  He  ground  his  knees  to- 
gether until  the  bones  ached.  His  breath- 
ing was  feverish. 

Finally  he  made  bold  to  say :  "  Mil- 
dewed." And  then  he  stopped.  He  had 
never  called  her  Mildred  before.  He  had 


CUPID    ON    RUNNERS 


177 


never  called  her  Mildewed  either,  but  that 
was  accidental,  and  he  hoped  that  she  had 
not  noticed 
the  slip. 

" I     have 
something      / 
of    the  - '%, 


greatest 
importance 

'y^fy^  'I''      to  say  to  you." 
Did    he   ima- 
gine   it,   or    did 

she  nestle  closer  to  him?  He  must  have 
been  mistaken,  and  to  show  that  he  was 
quite  sure  he  edged  away  from  her  as 


178  CUPID    ON    RUNNERS 

much  as  the  somewhat  narrow  confines  of 
the  sleigh  would  allow. 

"  What  do  you  wish  to  say,  Mr. 
Phillips?" 

"Mr."  Phillips!  Ah,  then  she  was 
offended.  To  be  sure,  she  had  always 
called  him  that,  but  after  his  last  remark 
it  must  have  an  added  significance. 

"I  —  er — do  you  like  sleigh-riding?" 

"  Why,  of  course,  or  else  I  should  n't 
have  come." 

Did  she  mean  that  as  a  slap  at  him  ? 
Was  it  only  for  the  ride,  and  not  for  his 
company,  that  she  had  come?  Oh,  he 
could  never  make  an  avowal  of  love  after 
that!  He  knew  his  place.  This  beautiful 
girl  was  not  for  a  faint-hearted  caitiff  like 
himself. 

"  Nun — nun — no,  to  be  sure  not.  I  — 
er — thought  that  was  why  you  came." 

Mildred  turned  her  gazelle-like  eyes 
upon  him.  "  I  'm  afraid  I  don't  under- 
stand you." 

That  settled  it.  If  she  did  n't  under- 
stand him  when  he  talked  of  nothing  in 
particular,  he  must  be  very  blind  in  his 


CUPID    ON    RUNNERS  179 

utterance,  and  he  could  never  trust  his 
tongue  to  carry  such  a  heavy  freight  as  a 
declaration  of  love.  No,  there  was  no- 
thing to  do  but  postpone  it. 

Mildred  drank  in  the  beauty  of  the 
scenes,  and  wished  that  it  were  decorous 
for  women  to  propose. 

Under  the  influence  of  sweet  surround- 
ings, Mildred  at  last  said  pointedly :  "  Is 
it  so  that  more  people  get  engaged  in 
winter  than  in  summer?  " 

She  blushed  as  she  spoke.  It  was  un- 
maidenly,  but  he  was  such  a  dear  gump. 
Now  he  would  declare  himself.  But  she 
did  not  know  the  capabilities  for  self- 
repression  of  her  two-year  admirer. 

He  said  to  himself:  "What  a  slip! 
What  a  delightful  slip!  If  I  were  un- 
principled I  would  take  advantage  of  it 
and  propose,  but  I  would  bitterly  reproach 
myself  forever,  whatever  her  answer  was." 

So  he  said  in  as  matter-of-fact  tone  as 
he  could  master  when  his  heart  was  beat- 
ing his  ribs  like  a  frightened  cageling :  "  I 
really  can't  answer  offhand,  but  I  '11  look 
it  up  for  you." 


i8o  CUPID    ON    RUNNERS 

"  Do.  Write  a  letter  to  the  news- 
paper.'- 

Her  tones  were  as  musical  as  ever,  but 
Littlewood  thought  he  detected  a  sarcastic 
ring  in  them,  and  he  thanked  his  stars 
that  he  had  not  yielded  to  his  natural  de- 
sire to  propose  at  such  an  inauspicious 
time. 

"  What  was  that  important  thing  you 
wanted  to  say?"  asked  Miss  Farrington, 
after  several  minutes  of  silence,  save  for 
the  hoofs  and  the  runners  and  the  bells. 

"  Oh,  it  was  n't  of  any  importance!  I 
mean  it  will  keep.  I — er — I  was  thinking 
of  something  else." 

"  I  think  you  have  gone  far  enough," 
said  she,  innocently,  looking  over  her 
shoulder  in  the  direction  of  home.  Maybe 
the  return  would  loosen  his  obdurate 
tongue. 

His  heart  stopped  beating  and  lay  a 
leaden  thing  in  his  breast.  Had  he,  then, 
gone  too  far?  What  had  he  said?  Oh, 
why  had  he  come  out  with  this  lovely  be- 
ing, the  mere  sight  of  whom  was  enough 
to  make  one  cast  all  restraint  to  the  winds 


CUPID    ON    RUNNERS  181 

and  declare  in  thunderous  tones  that  he 
loved  her? 

"  I  think  that  we  'd  better  go  back,"  he 
said,  and  turned  so  quickly  that  he  nearly 
upset  the  sleigh.  "  Your  mother  will  be 
anxious." 

"  Yes ;  when  one  is  accountable  to  one's 
mother  one  has  to  remember  time.  I 
suppose  it  is  different  when  one  is  account- 
able to  a—" 

"Father?"  said  Littlewood,  asininely. 

"No;  that  was  n't  the  word  I  wanted." 

"  A-a-aunt?" 

Could  Mildred  love  him  if  he  gave  many 
more  such  proofs  of  being  an  abject  idiot? 

"No;  husband  is  what  I  want." 
•  Littlewood's  brain  swam.  He  had  been 
tempted  once  too  often.  This  naive  girl 
had  innocently  played  into  his  hands,  and 
now  the  Rubicon  must  be  crossed,  even  if 
its  angry  waters  engulfed  him. 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss— er— Mildred,"— he 
did  not  say  Mildewed  this  time, — "if  I 
twist  your  words  into  another  meaning, 
but  if  you — er — want  a  husband — do  you 
think  I  would  do  ?  " 


182  CUPID    ON    RUNNERS 

A  head  nestled  on  his  shoulder,  a  little 
hand  was  in  his,  and  when  he  passed  the 
Farrington  mansion  neither  he  nor  she 
knew  it. 


XXXIII 
MY  TRUTHFUL   BURGLAR 

HAD  an  experience  with  a  bur- 
glar night  before  last.  My  family 
are  all  away,  and  I  have  been  liv- 
ing alone  in  the  house,  a  detached  villa  in 
New  Jersey,  for  upward  of  a  month.  Sev- 
eral burglaries  have  occurred  in  the  vicinity. 
Night  before  last  I  was  awakened  about 
four  o'clock  by  a  noise  made  by  a  clicking 
door,  and  opening  my  eyes,  I  saw  a 
smooth-faced,  determined-looking  man  at 
my  bedside.  I  did  not  cry  out,  nor  hide 
under  the  bedclothes,  nor  do  any  of  the 
conventional  things  that  one  does  when  a 
burglar  comes  to  him. 

I  looked  at  him  calmly  for  a  moment, 
and  then  I  said,  "  How  d'  do?  " 

An  expression  of  surprise  passed  over 
183 


184  MY   TRUTHFUL   BURGLAR 

his  intelligent  features,  but  he  said  me- 
chanically, "  Pretty  well,  thank  you.  And 
you?" 

"  Oh,  I  'm  as  well  as  could  be  expected 
under  the  circumstances.  Are  you  the 
burglar  who  has  been  doing  this  village?" 

"  I  am,"  said  he,  drawing  up  a  chair 
and  sitting  down. 

"  Why  don't  you  deny  it?  "  I  asked.  I 
was  n't  afraid.  He  amused  me,  this  non- 
chalant burglar. 

"  Well,  because  I  'm  not  ashamed  of 
my  profession,  for  one  reason,  and  mainly 
because  I  was  brought  up  by  my  father  to 
tell  the  truth." 

"  You  tell  the  truth,  and  yet  you  are  a 
burglar.  How  can  you  reconcile  those 
facts?" 

"  They  are  not  irreconcilable,"  said  he, 
taking  a  corn-cob  pipe  out  of  his  pocket 
and  filling  it  "  I  am  a  burglar,  and  my 
father  was  one  before  me,  but  he  was  a 
perfectly  honorable  man.  He  never  lied, 
and  I  never  lie.  I  steal  because  that  is 
my  profession,  but  I  make  it  a  rule  to  tell 
the  truth  upon  all  occasions.  Why,  if  the 


MY  TRUTHFUL  BURGLAR  185 

success  of  my  venture  to-night  depended 
upon  my  lying  to  you,  I  'd  immediately 
leave  this  place,  as  innocent  of  plunder  as 
when  I  came  in.  Where  's  the  silver?" 

"  Top  drawer  of  the  sideboard."  There 
was  a  magnetism,  a  bonhomie,  about  the 
man  that  captivated  me. 

"Are  you  armed?"  asked  he,  as  he 
puffed  at  his  pipe. 

"  If  I  had  been  I  'd  have  winged  you 
before  this,"  said  I,  laughing. 

"  I  believe  you,  and  I  honor  you  for  be- 
ing perfectly  frank  with  me." 

"  Why,  as  to  that,  I  'm  not  to  be  out- 
done in  frankness  by  a  thief." 

"  That  will  make  my  task  so  much  the 
easier.  After  I  've  finished  this  pipe  I 
want  you  to  give  me  your  word  that 
you  '11  lie  still  until  I  've  taken  all  I  want." 

I  admired  the  man's  nerve,  and  I  said : 
"  For  the  time  being  I  consider  you  my 
guest,  and,  Spanish  fashion,  my  house  is 
at  your  disposal." 

"  Don't  put  it  on  that  basis,  or  I  will 
leave  at  once.  This  is  no  time  for  aping 
the  Spanish." 


1 86 


MY   TRUTHFUL   BURGLAR 


"  You  are  right.  But  I  tell  you  can- 
didly that  I  would  far  rather  have  found 
out  that  you  were  a  liar  than  a  burglar. 
Your  lies  would  not  be  likely  to  injure  me, 
but  I  '11  be  out  just  so  much  by  what  you 
take.  I  'd  much  rather  you  were  a  liar." 

"And  I  would  not.  If  I  steal,  I  do 
but  take  something  that,  to  paraphrase 
Shakspere,  was  yours,  is  mine,  and  has 
been  slave  to  thousands ;  but  to  lie  would 


be  to  '  lay  perjury  to  my  soul,'  and  that  I 
would  not  do,  '  no,  not  for  Venice'!  " 

"  I  see  you  know  Shakspere,"  said  I, 
punching  my  pillow  so  that  I  could  be 
more  comfortable.  I  was  reading  this  odd 
fellow,  and  I  believed  that  I  could  dis- 
suade him  from  his  purpose. 


MY  TRUTHFUL  BURGLAR  187 

"Know  Shakspere?  I  was  an  actor 
once." 

I  felt  that  I  had  him,  for  I  know  actors 
better  than  he  knew  Shakspere. 

"  Did  you  ever  play  Hamlet?  "  I  asked, 
sitting  up  in  bed. 

"  I  did ;  and  I  made  such  a  hit  that  if  it 
had  n't  been  for  the  venality  of  the  press 
and  my  sense  of  honor,  I  would  have  been 
adjudged  one  of  the  greatest  Hamlets  of 
the  day." 

"  Give  me  the  soliloquy.  I  give  you 
my  word  that  ordinarily  I  'd  rather  be 
robbed  than  hear  it,  but  I  like  your  voice 
and  I  believe  that  you  can  do  it  justice." 

A  self-satisfied  smile  illuminated  his 
face.  He  laid  down  the  pipe  and  gave  me 
the  soliloquy,  and  it  was  n't  bad. 

"Bully!"  I  said,  when  he  had  finished. 
"  Why,  man,  you  make  an  indifferent  thief, 
else  you  would  have  decamped  long  ago ; 
but  the  stage  has  lost  an  actor  that  would 
have  in  time  compelled  the  unwilling 
admiration  of  the  press." 

And  so  I  jollied  him,  and  he  gave  me 
the  trial  scene  from  "  The  Merchant  of 


:88  MY  TRUTHFUL   BURGLAR 

Venice,"  and  other  selections,  until  dawn 
began  to  show  in  the  east,  when  he  picked 
up  his  bag  and  said,  "  It  would  be  a  shame 
to  rob  a  white  man  like  you."  Then  he 
bade  me  good-by  and  left. 

And  I  congratulated  myself  upon  my 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  until  I  began 
to  dress,  when  I  found  that  the  fellow  had 
finished  his  burgling  before  I  woke,  and 
he  has  all  my  silver. 


XXXIV 
THE    MAN    WITHOUT    A    WATCH 


HOMAS  MORLEY  knew  the 
value  of  promptitude.  He  was  a 
young  man  on  whom  ninety-two 
seasons  had  poured  benefits  and  adversities, 
although  many  of  the  latter  he  took  to  be 
the  former,  his  temperament  shedding 
sorrow  as  a  duck  does  water,  to  use  a 
castanean  simile. 

He  was  a  born  and  bred  New-Yorker, 
but  at  the  time  of  which  we  write  he  had 
been  living  for  the  last  ten  or  twelve 
months  in  Uxton,  up  among  the  hills  of 
northwestern  Connecticut,  studying  the 
natives ;  for  he  was  a  writer. 

Having  filled  a  portfolio  with  material 
for  enough  dialect  stories  to  run  one  of 
the  great  magazines  for  a  year,  he  deter- 
189 


igo       THE   MAN  WITHOUT  A  WATCH 

mined  to  seek  his  matter  in  the  metropolis, 
and  to  that  end  applied  for  a  reportership 
on  the  New  York  "  Courier-Journal,"  in 
which  paper  many  of  his  brightest  things 
had  appeared  at  remunerative  rates. 

As  has  been  said,  he  knew  the  value  of 
promptitude,  so  when,  at  eight  o'clock  one 
night,  Farmer  Phelps's  hired  man  handed 
him  a  letter  from  James  Fitzgerald,  man- 
aging editor  of  the  "  Courier-Journal,"  ask- 
ing him  to  come  and  see  him  in  regard  to 
a  reportership  as  soon  as  possible,  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  take  the  train  which 
left  Winsonia,  four  miles  distant,  at  six 
o'clock  next  morning.  This  would  enable 
him  to  reach  the  office  by  half- past  ten, 
and  probably  catch  Mr.  Fitzgerald  on  his 
arrival  at  his  desk. 

Next  morning  he  arose  at  four,  and 
when  he  left  the  house  he  had  sixty  min- 
utes in  which  to  walk  four  miles  down- 
hill —  ample  time,  surely. 

It  was  so  ample  that  he  would  have  had 
fifteen  minutes  to  spare  if  the  home  clock 
had  been  right.  As  it  was,  he  arrived  at 
the  station  in  time  to  see  the  train  rapidly 


disappearing  around  a  curve,  on  its  way 
to  New  York.  He  laughed  good-na- 
turedly with  the  baggageman,  and  asked 
him  when  the  next  down  train  was  due. 

"  Seven-thirty,  sharp.  You  '11  not  have 
to  wait  long." 

Seven-thirty.  That  would  bring  hirn 
into  the  presence  of  Mr.  Fitzgerald  at  just 
about  the  time  he  arrived  at  his  sanctum. 
"  Better  than  to  have  to  wait  in  a  presu- 
mably stuffy  room,"  said  he  to  himself, 
philosophically.  He  lit  a  cigar,  and,  as 
the  air  was  bracing  and  he  was  fond  of 
walking,  he  struck  out  into  a  five-mile-an- 
hour  gait  down  the  main  street  of  Win- 
sonia. 

His  footsteps  led  him  farther  than  he 
had  intended  going,  and  when  he  reached 
the  Baptist  church  at  East  Winsonia,  he 
saw  by  its  clock  that  it  lacked  but  forty 
minutes  of  train-time,  and  he  had  four 
miles  to  make.  He  threw  away  the 
stump  of  his  cigar,  which  had  been  out  for 
some  time,  broke  into  a  jog-trot,  and,  after 
covering  a  mile,  he  caught  his  second  wind 
and  mended  his  pace. 


192       THE    MAN  WITHOUT  A  WATCH 

His  fleetness  would  have  served  its  turn 
had  not  a  malicious  breeze  blown  his  hat 
over  a  high  iron  fence  that  surrounded  a 
churchyard.  By  the  time  he  had  climbed 
the  fence  and  recovered  his  hat  he  had 
consumed  so  many  precious  minutes  that, 
although  he  sprinted  the  last  mile,  he  ar- 
rived at  the  station  only  in  time  to  see 
train  No.  2  disappearing  around  that  hate- 
ful curve. 

The  baggageman  was  standing  on  the 
platform,  and  he  said  : 

"  Ain't  once  enough  ?  " 

"  More  than  enough  for  most  people," 
said  Thomas,  whose  rare  good  nature  was 
proof  against  even  such  a  remark  at  such 
a  time. 

The  next  train  for  New  York  was 
due  at  nine  fifty-six.  Being  somewhat 
blown,  he  walked  around  the  corner  to 
a  billiard-room,  meaning  to  sit  down 
and  watch  whatever  game  might  be  in 
progress. 

"  It  may  be,"  soliloquized  Thomas, 
"  that  Fitzgerald  won't  reach  the  office 
until  after  lunch,  and  I  '11  get  there  at 


THE   MAN  WITHOUT  A  WATCH        193 

half-past  two,  in  time  to  see  him  when  he  's 
feeling  good." 

He  met  Ned  Halloway  at  the  billiard- 
room,  and  when  Ned  asked  him  to  take  a 
cue  he  consented.  Billiards  was  a  game 
in  which  he  was  apt  to  lose — himself,  at 
any  rate ;  yet  to-day  his  mind  was  enough 
on  the  alert  to  enable  him,  after  a  time,  to 
glance  at  the  clock  over  the  bar  in  the  next 
room.  It  was  forty-five  minutes  past 
eight. 

They  began  another  game.  Later  he 
looked  again  at  the  clock.  A  quarter  of 
nine.  After  another  game  he  looked  up 
once  more.  "  Fifteen  minutes  to  ni — . 
Say,  Ned,  what  's  the  matter  with  that 
clock?"  Ned  looked  at  it,  then  at  his 
watch.  "  Why,  it  's  stopped ! " 

"  You  settle — see  you  later."  And 
Thomas  was  gone  like  a  shot. 

This  time  he  had  the  rare  pleasure  of 
noting  how  the  rear  car  of  a  train  grows 
rapidly  smaller  as  it  recedes.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  train  disappeared  around  the 
curve  before  mentioned. 

"  Say,  Mr.  Morley,  you  've  time  to  miss 


194       THE   MAN  WITHOUT  A  WATCH 

the  next,  easy,"  said  the  baggageman, 
dryly. 

Thomas  was  vexed,  but  he  said  pleas- 
antly :  "  When  is  it  due  ?  " 

"  Half-past  two.  Better  wait  here  and 
make  sure  of  it." 


"Oh,  dry  up!  No;  do  the  other  thing; 
it  's  on  me." 

After  this  little  duty  had  been  per- 
formed, Thomas,  with  an  irrelevancy  of  ac- 
tion that  might  have  struck  an  observer  as 
amusing,  made  his  way  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
rooms  to  read  the  magazines. 


THE   MAN  WITHOUT  A  WATCH        195 

"  Let  's  see,"  said  he;  "  I  '11  get  to  his 
desk  at  seven.  He  '11  be  hard  at  work, 
and,  if  he  engages  me,  he  may  send  me 
out  on  an  assignment  at  once.  Glad  I 
missed  the  other  trains." 

Thus  was  Thomas  wont  to  soliloquize. 
At  one  o'clock  he  went  to  Conley's  Inn, 
and  sat  down  to  one  of  those  dinners  that 
attract  drummers  to  a  hotel.  Necessarily, 
then,  it  was  a  good  dinner,  and  one  over 
which  he  lingered  until  nearly  two.  Then 
he  went  into  the  office  and  sat  down. 

The  room  was  warm,  and  his  dinner 
had  made  him  drowsy.  He  decided  to 
take  a  little  nap.  He  had  the  faculty  of 
waking  when  he  pleased,  and  he  willed 
to  do  so  at  fifteen  minutes  past  two.  It 
would  be  weakness  for  him  to  get  to  the 
station  with  too  much  time  to  spare,  but 
this  would  give  him  a  quarter-hour  in 
which  to  go  a  half-mile. 

His  awakening  faculty  would  seem  to 
have  been  slightly  out  of  order  that  day, 
however,  and  he  did  not  arouse  until 
twenty-nine  minutes  past  two  by  the  hotel 
clock. 


196       THE   MAN  WITHOUT  A  WATCH 

Of  course  he  did  not  make  a  fool  of 
himself  by  trying  to  do  a  half-mile  in  sixty 
seconds;  but  he  walked  leisurely  toward 
the  station,  intending  to  get  his  ticket  and 
have  that  off  his  mind. 

He  laughed  heartily  at  a  corpulent  fel- 
low who  darted  by  him,  carrying  a  grip. 

His  laughter  ceased,  however,  when,  on 
turning  the  corner,  he  discerned  the  afore- 
said fat  man  in  the  act  of  being  assisted 
on  to  the  platform  of  the  last  car  by  the 
brakeman,  the  train  having  acquired  con- 
siderable momentum.  Then  he  saw  it 
disappear  around  a  curve  which  was  part 
of  the  road  at  that  point.  There  were 
three  explanations  possible :  either  the 
train  was  behind  time,  or  else  his  awaken- 
ing faculty  was  in  good  repair,  or  the 
hotel  clock  was  fourteen  minutes  fast. 
The  latter  proved  to  be  the  correct  ex- 
planation of  the  somewhat  vexing  occur- 
rence. 

"  Say,  that  's  a  bad  habit  you  have  of 
missing  trains,"  said  his  friend  the  bag- 
gageman. "  Goin'  to  miss  another — or  do 
anything  else?  " 


THE   MAN  WITHOUT  A  WATCH       197 

"No,"  said  Thomas,  shortly. 

He  knew  that  the  next  train  at  five 
was  the  last.  This  would  make  it  possible 
to  reach  Fitzgerald  at  half-past  nine. 
"  Right  in  the  heat  of  the  work.  He  '11 
engage  me  to  get  rid  of  me,"  laughed 
Thomas  to  himself.  Then  he  continued: 
"  I  never  heard  of  a  man  missing  every 
train  in  a  day,  so  I  '11  risk  calling  on  Laura 
before  the  next  one  starts." 

Miss  Sedgwick,  the  one  he  called  Laura, 
lived  out  of  town  near  the  railroad  track, 
and  two  miles  nearer  New  York  than 
Winsonia  station. 

She  was  a  captivating  girl,  and  when 
Thomas  was  in  her  presence  he  never  took 
heed  of  time.  He  was  lucky  enough  to 
find  her  at  home.  She  seemed  glad  to  see 
him,  and  was  much  interested  in  his  ac- 
count of  how  near  he  had  come  to  catching 
some  trains  that  day;  and  as  nothing  is 
so  engaging  as  a  good  listener,  the  min- 
utes passed  on  pneumatic  tires.  When  at 
last  he  took  note  of  the  hour,  it  was  five 
o'clock. 

"  That  clock  is  n't  right,  is  it?  " 
13* 


198       THE   MAN  WITHOUT  A  WATCH 

"  Yes,  sir.  Father  keeps  it  at  railroad 
time.  Mercy!  you  've  lost  your  train 
again,  have  n't  you?" 

"  Laura,  this  time  it 's  bad.  I  won't  see 
him  to-day,  now,  and  to-morrow  may  not 
do.  Let  me  go  and  kick  myself." 

"  I  'm  awfully  sorry,  Tom.  I  hope  to- 
morrow won't  be  too  late." 

Thomas  squeezed  her  hand  and  left  her, 
feeling  rather  blue. 

The  railroad  track  was  but  a  block  away, 
and  he  walked  over  to  it,  not  with  suicidal 
intent,  but  just  that  he  might  tantalize 
himself  with  a  view  of  the  train  as  it  sped 
by,  which  it  should  do  in  about  a  minute. 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  he,  "  it  won't  be 
going  around  that  dreadful  curve." 

It  was  the  last  of  December,  and  the 
sun  had  set.  When  he  reached  the  track 
he  saw,  far  away,  a  glimmer  of  the  head- 
light of  the  five-o'clock  express. 

Nearer  and  nearer  it  came.  A  moment 
more  and  it  would  rush  by  like  a  meteor. 
But  it  did  n't.  It  slackened  up  at  the  very 
corner  on  which  Thomas  stood,  to  allow 
an  official  of  the  road  to  jump  off. 


THE   MAN  WITHOUT  A  WATCH       199 

Thomas  was  not  slow,  if  he  did  miss 
trains  now  and  then.  He  swung  himself 
on  to  the  smoker. 

"  Go'n'  far?"  asked  the  brakeman. 

"  To  New  York,"  was  his  reply. 

"You  're  in  luck." 

"  Well,  I  've  not  missed  more  than  three 
or  four  trains  in  my  life!"  said  Thomas; 
and  it  was  strictly  true. 

Half-past  nine  to  the  minute  found  him 
outside  of  the  editorial  rooms  of  the 
"  Courier- Journal." 

"Can  I  see  Mr.  Fitzgerald?"  he  asked 
of  a  boy  who  came  in  response  to  a  knock. 

"  No,  sir ;  he  went  out  of  town  yester- 
day. Be  back  to-morrow  at  twelve." 

"  DID  you  get  my  letter  already  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Fitzgerald  of  Thomas  Morley, 
when  he  came  to  his  desk  next  morning 
and  found  that  young  man  waiting  for 
him. 

"Yes,  sir;  and  here  I  am." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  like  your  promptness,  and 
I  '11  give  you  the  place  of  a  man  whom  we 
had  to  discharge  for  being  too  slow.  You 


200       THE   MAN  WITHOUT  A  WATCH 

seem  to  have  what  a  reporter  needs  most 
of  all— the  'get  there'  quality." 

"  I  did  n't  allow  any  trains  to  pass  me," 
said  Thomas,  modestly. 


XXXV 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE 
"CATAPULT" 

BY    CL-RK    R-SS-LL 

The  sea,  the  sea,  the  open  sea, 
The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free. 

BARRY  CORNWALL. 

F  there  be  those  who  love  not  the 
sea,  with  its  storms,  its  seaweed, 
its  sharks  and  shrimps  and  ships, 
this  is  not  the  story  for  them,  and  they 
would  best  weigh  anchor  and  steer  for 
some  tale  written  by  a  landlubber  and  full 
of  green  meadows  and  trees  and  such 
tommy-rot,  for  this  is  to  be  chock-a-block 
with  nautical  phrases. 

And  who  am  I,  you  ask  ?     I  am  Joseph 

201 


202     THE   WRECK   OF   THE    "CATAPULT" 

Inland,  the  tenth  of  that  name.  We  have 
always  lived  and  died  here  in  Birmingham, 
and  followed  the  trade  of  cutlers;  but 
when  I  was  a  babe  of  one  year  father 
told  mother  't  was  time  one  member  of 
the  family  followed  the  sea,  wherever  it 
went,  and  that  he  intended  to  make  a  sailor 
of  me. 

So  before  I  was  six  I  had  heard  of 
sloops  and  ferry-boats  and  belaying-pins 
and  admirals  and  salt-junk,  and  longed  to 
hear  the  wind  whistling  through  the  main- 
topgallantmast,  and  could  say  "  boat- 
swain "  as  glibly  as  any  sailor  afloat.  But 
father  was  in  moderate  circumstances; 
and  so,  much  as  he  would  have  liked  to, 
he  could  not  afford  to  send  me  to  sea 
when  I  was  a  boy,  and  that  is  why  my 
one-and-twentieth  birthday  came  and  went 
and  I  had  never  been  farther  from  Bir- 
mingham than  my  legs  could  carry  me  in  a 
day  ;  but  you  may  be  sure  that  I  subscribed 
to  the  "  Seaman's  Daily,"  and  through 
a  friend  who  knew  a  sailor  I  had  picked 
up  such  terms  as  "amidships,"  "deck," 
"boom,"  "bilge-water,"  "forecastle,"  and 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  "CATAPULT"  203 

the  like,  so  that  I  was  a  seaman  in  every- 
thing save  actual  experience. 

And  in  the  amateur  dramatic  society  of 
which  I  was  a  member  I  always  played 
sailors'  parts,  and  did  them  so  well 
that  when  we  played  "  Hamlet "  they 
changed  the  part  of  the  grave-digger  to 
that  of  a  sailor  for  me,  and  I  made  a  great 
hit  in  it.  The  one  who  played  Hamlet 
did  n't  like  the  change,  as  it  interfered 
with  his  lines  and  his  business  with  a  skull, 
and  he  refused  to  come  on  at  all  in  that 
act;  but  I  sang  a  sea-song  instead,  and 
the  newspaper  came  out  and  said  that 
my  singing  was  no  worse  than  his  acting 
would  have  been,  which  I  thought  pretty 
neat. 

But  enough  of  that.  I  was  always  fond 
of  joking,  and  had  nigh  unto  a  score  of 
comical  sayings  that  I  used  to  repeat  to 
my  friends  when  they  would  come  to  our 
house  of  an  evening;  but  they  did  n't 
often  come.  My  father  said  I  was  as 
comical  a  lad  as  he  ever  knew,  and  would 
slap  me  on  the  back  and  roar  that  it  was 
the  funniest  thing  he  had  heard  in  a 


204     THE   WRECK   OF   THE    "CATAPULT" 

twelvemonth  when  I  made  one  particular 
joke,  the  tenor  of  which  I  forget  now. 
But  all  the  jokes  dealt  with  the  sea. 

Well,  so  much  for  my  life  up  to  my  one- 
and-twentieth  birthday.  You  have  learned 
that  if  ever  a  body  was  fitted  for  a  sea  life, 
that  body  was  mine. 

By  the  time  I  was  six-and-twenty  I 
don't  believe  there  was  a  sea  term  that 
I  did  not  have  at  my  tongue's  end,  and  I 
always  wore  my  trousers  wide  at  the  lower 
end,  and  kept  a  chew  of  tobacco  in  my 
mouth  day  and  night,  although  after  a 
time  I  failed  to  notice  any  taste  in  it. 

It  was  a  gladsome  sight  to  see  me  go 
rolling  to  my  work  in  the  cutler's  shop 
(for  I  still  followed  the  old  trade),  with  a 
hearty  "  Ho,  landsman !  good  mornin'  to 
ye ! "  to  all  I  met,  in  true  sailor  fashion. 

Our  fare  at  home  consisted  of  loblolly, 
ship's-biscuit,  salt-junk,  and  plum-duff, 
with  water  drawn  from  casks.  My  dear 
old  mother  used  sometimes  to  wish  for 
home-made  bread  and  fresh  meat  and 
vegetables  and  pump  water;  and  I  remem- 
ber, one  winter,  brother  died  of  the  scurvy ; 


THE   WRECK    OF   THE    "CATAPULT"     205 

but  I  was  better  content  than  if  he  had 
died  of  some  landsman's  complaint,  and 


mother  was  glad  to  put  up  with  anything, 
she  was  so  proud  that  I  was  to  be  a  seaman. 


206    THE  WRECK   OF  THE    "CATAPULT" 

I  had  a  carpenter  construct  my  parents' 
bedroom  so  that  the  whole  floor  could  be 
rocked  ;  and  on  stormy  nights  I  would  stay 
up  and  by  a  simple  mechanism  keep  it 
a-rocking  until  poor  old  mother  would  be 
as  sick  as  if  she  were  in  the  Channel.  But 
I  never  heard  her  murmur.  She  was  fit 
for  a  sailor's  wife. 

On  such  nights  father  never  went  to  bed, 
but  stayed  down-stairs.  There  was  little 
of  the  seaman's  spirit  in  the  old  man. 

When  I  was  one-and-thirty  I  had  a  rare 
chance  to  ship  before  the  mast  on  a  whaler 
sailing  from  Liverpool ;  but  as  business 
was  pretty  brisk  at  the  shop,  I  decided  to 
wait,  and  the  offer  was  not  renewed  when 
she  returned,  three  years  later. 

When  I  was  forty  dear  mother  entered 
her  last  port.  The  doctor,  a  blundering 
landlubber,  fond  of  landsmen's  phrases,  said 
she  died  of  insufficient  nutriment.  Be 
that  as  it  may  or  what  it  may,  in  her  I 
lost  one  whose  heart  was  always  on  my 
going  to  sea.  Douse  my  top-lights  if  ever 
there  was  a  craft  that  carried  a  stancher 
heart  from  barnacle  to  binnacle  than  did 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  "CATAPULT"  207 

the  old  lady,  and  I  had  her  buried  in 
shrouds,  with  a  cannon-ball  at  the  foot  of 
the  coffin,  as  befitted  the  mother  of  one 
who  was  going  to  be  a  seaman. 

After  she  died  I  became  even  more  im- 
patient to  be  off  to  sea,  for  there  's  no  air 
so  pure  as  the  sea  air,  no  hearts  so  true  as 
seamen's  hearts,  no  weed  like  seaweed, 
and  no  water  that  's  fit  to  drink  save  sea 
water;  but  business  was  pretty  good,  so, 
for  the  present,  I  decided  to  stay  ashore ; 
but  I  always  read  the  shipping  news  with 
as  much  keenness  as  any  sailor  afloat. 

AXD  now  I  Ve  come  to  the  end  of  my 
yarn.  I  named  it  "The  Wreck  of  the 
'  Catapult'  "  because  it  had  a  salty  savor. 
It  was  the  name  of  one  of  my  favorite 
Sunday-school  books  when  I  was  a  lad. 
Now  I  am  an  old  man,  threescore  and 
ten,  and  have  been  alone  in  the  world  a 
score  of  years.  Heaven  denied  me  the 
blessing  of  children,  but  I  have  a  grandson 
who  is  as  hot  for  the  sea  as  I  was. 

Ah,  me!  Next  week  I  am  going  to 
apply  for  admission  to  the  Sailors'  Home ; 


208    THE   WRECK   OF   THE    "CATAPULT" 

for  although  circumstances  have  prevented 
my  ever  seeing  the  ocean  or  scenting  its 
salty  breezes,  I  have  always  been,  and  al- 
ways shall  be,  at  heart  a  British  seaman. 
Shiver  my  timbers ! 


ESSAYS   AT  ESSAYS 


XXXVI 

THE  BULL,  THE  GIRL,  AND  THE 
RED  SHAWL 

HERE  is  no  incident  in  all  the 
realms  of  literature,  from  the 
"  penny  dreadful "  up  to  the 
three-volume  novel,  that  has  afforded  so 
much  material  for  the  pen  of  the  writer  of 
fiction  as  the  delightful  episode  of  the 
bull,  the  young  girl  with  the  red  shawl, 
and  the  young  girl's  lover.  Sometimes 
the  cast  includes  the  lover's  hated  rival, 
but  the  story  may  be  told  without  using 
him. 

It  is  thirty-odd  years  since  I  first  came 
across  this  thrilling  adventure  in  the  pages 
of  a  child's  book,  very  popular  at  the  time. 
How  well  I  remember  how  my  young 
blood — to  be  exact,  my  seven-year-old 


212  THE   BULL,  THE   GIRL, 

blood — thrilled  as  I  mentally  watched  this 
frail  girl,  with  a  start  of  just  three  feet, 
lead  the  tremendous  and  horribly  savage 
bull  in  a  three-hundred-yard  sprint,  only  to 
trip  at  last  on  the  only  obstruction  in  the 
ten-acre  field ;  how,  just  as  the  bull  reached 
her,  she  flung  her  red  shawl  a  few  rods 
to  the  right ;  how  the  bull,  leaving  her, 
plunged  after  it;  how  she,  weak  and 
trembling,  ran  to  the  stone  wall  and  man- 
aged to  vault  it  just  as  her  lover,  a  brawny 
blacksmith,  who  had  seen  the  whole  affair 
at  too  great  a  distance  to  be  of  immediate 
service,  reached  the  wall  and  received  her 
in  his  arms.  "  Oh,  Kenston,"  she  mur- 
mured, "  you  have  saved  my  life ! "  And 
then  she  fainted,  and  I  believe  the  bull 
ate  up  the  shawl ;  at  any  rate,  its  part  in 
that  particular  story  was  ended. 

I  have  always  felt  that,  thrilling  as  this 
scene  was,  it  had  not  been  worked  for  all 
it  was  worth ;  but  an  extensive  reading 
since  then  has  brought  me  to  the  conclu- 
sion that,  first  and  last,  it  has  been  worked 
for  its  full  value. 


AND  THE   RED   SHAWL  213 

The  next  time  that  I  read  the  enthralling 
narrative  I  was  some  years  older,  but  the 
memory  of  the  other  telling  was  still  fresh 
within  me ;  and  so,  when,  in  the  second 
chapter,  I  read  about  a  savage  old  bull, 
one  Hector,  the  property  of  Squire  Flint, 
the  meanest  man  in  the  county, — not  that 
his  meanness  had  anything  to  do  with  the 
story,  but  it  is  one  of  the  conventions  that 
a  savage  bull  shall  be  owned  by  a  cross, 
crabbed,  and  thoroughly  stingy  man, — I 
say,  when  I  had  read  thus  far  my  pulse 
quickened.  Inexperienced  as  I  was,  I 
somehow  sensed  the  coming  situation.  I 
seemed  to  know  as  by  clairvoyance  that, 
however  limited  the  heroine's  wardrobe 
might  be  in  some  respects,  there  was  one 
article  of  apparel  that  she  surely  possessed, 
or  would  possess  in  time  to  meet  the  exi- 
gencies. True  enough,  in  the  very  next 
chapter  her  maiden  aunt,  a  saintly  old 
lady  of  ninety,  died  and  bequeathed  to  her 
sorrowing  niece  a  red  pongee  shawl  of 
great  value — as  a  bull-enrager.  The  book 
had  seemed  prosy  at  the  start,  but  now  that 


214 


THE   BULL,  THE   GIRL, 


I  knew  what  was  coming,  and  that  it  was 
that  that  was  coming,  I  read  on  breath- 
lessly. 

Needless  to  say  that  in  the  next  chapter 
the  young  girl  fell  in  love  with  a  strapping 
young  fellow,  who  immediately  proposed 
that  they  take  a  walk. 
How  well   I   knew, 
though  they  did  not, 
where      that     walk 
would    lead    them ! 
The    mad    bull — in 
this    case    it   was 
mad,        although 
any  old  bull  will 
do,  mad  or  not — 
was  rampant  in  a 
lot  a  mile  south 
of  the  young  girl's 

house,  and  they  started  to  walk  due  north ; 
but  I  knew  full  well  that  they  would  need 
to  cross  that  particular  pasture  before  they 
got  home,  and  a  few  pages  later  found 
them  climbing  over  a  stone  wall  into  the 
bull's  domain,  and  then  they  walked  along, 
intent  only  on  their  new-found  happiness. 


AND  THE   RED    SHAWL  215 

The  day  was  chilly, — in  the  middle  of  a 
particularly  hot  July, — so  that  the  girl  could 
have  an  excuse  to  wear  her  red  shawl. 
Now,  having  brought  two  of  the  actors 
upon  the  stage,  the  cue  was  soon  given  to 
the  bull;  and  in  a  moment  the  happy 
lovers,  feeling  the  ground  tremble  beneath 
their  feet,  turned  and  saw  Hector,  his  horns 
gyrating  with  rage,  his  eyes  bulging  out, 
and  his  head  lowered  as  he  thundered 
along  straight  for  the  pongee  bequest. 
To  take  her  under  his  strong  arm  and  to 
rush  forward  were  the  only  things  for  the 
young  man  to  do,  and  he  did  them;  and 
then  the  rest  ran  as  per  schedule.  I  be- 
lieve that  in  this  case  the  young  man  threw 
the  girl  into  a  tree  and  then  plunged  down 
a  woodchuck's  hole.  At  any  rate,  the  girl 
was  unharmed.  That  is  the  one  unalterable 
formula  in  constructing  these  bull  stories : 
save  the  girl  unharmed.  You  may  break 
the  young  man's  leg  or  arm,  and  you  may 
do  what  you  will  with  the  bull,  but  the 
young  girl  must  come  through  unscathed. 
It  was  years  before  this  moving  inci- 
dent ceased  to  hold  me,  and  in  that  time 


2i6  THE   BULL,  THE   GIRL, 

how  many  changes  were  rung  on  it !  Once 
only  was  the  red  shawl  absent,  and  I  won- 
dered how  in  the  world  the  bull  was  to  be 
infuriated,  as  he  was  a  singularly  mild 
beast  in  the  earlier  chapters,  and  on  May- 
days had  been  festooned  with  garlands. 
Then,  too,  the  girl  was  in  deep  mourning 
— for  her  lover!  But  the  ten-acre  lot  was 
all  right,  and  as  the  author  was  a  clever 
man,  I  felt  that  he  would  find  a  way  to 
run  the  act  with  a  small  cast  and  no  prop- 
erties. So  I  read  on,  and  after  wondering, 
together  with  the  girl  herself,  what  could 
have  caused  the  peaceful  old  bovine  to 
chase  her,  tail  up  and  head  down,  the  full 
length  of  a  particularly  long  pasture,  she 
and  I  found  out  when  she  realized  that, 
the  day  being  sunny,  she  had  picked  up 
her  cousin's  parasol,  which  was  necessarily 
of  a  brilliant  scarlet.  She  had  no  lover, 
for,  as  I  say,  he  had  died — two  chapters 
before  the  book  was  begun ;  but  she  did 
have  presence  of  mind,  and  so  she  inserted 
the  point  of  the  parasol  in  the  bull's 
mouth,  and  then  opened  it,  and  while  he 
was  extracting  it  with  his  fore  paws,  she 


AND  THE   RED   SHAWL  217 

reached  the  fence  and   vaulted   it  in  the 
usual  way. 

The  possibilities  of  the  incident  are  by 
no  means  exhausted,  and  so  far  from 
"Amos  Judd"  being  the  last  story  in 
which  it  was  used,  I  saw  it  in  a  tale  pub- 
lished this  month,  and  this  time  with  the 
full  paraphernalia  of  hated  rival,  lover,  red 
shawl,  and  all ;  but  for  me  it  had  lost  its 
zest.  To  be  sure,  if.they  would  make  the 
hero  an  athlete,  and  have  him  bravely 
stand  his  ground  while  the  girl  climbed  to 
the  top  of  an  enormous  elm,  and  then,  just 
as  the  bull  lowered  his  head  to  toss  him, 
have  the  hero  jump  high  in  the  air  and 
make  the  bull  pass  beneath  him,  and  as 
he  reached  ground  again  seize  the  bull, 
not  by  the  horns,  but  by  the  tail,  and, 
swinging  it  three  times  around  his  head, 
dash  it  against  a  tree  and  stun  it, — that  is, 
if  its  tail  were  securely  welded  to  its  body, 
— there  would  be  an  original  treatment  of 
the  subject.  And  if  its  tail  were  but 
loosely  fixed  to  it,  the  hero  could  pull  it 
out,  and  the  bull,  filled  with  chagrin,  would 
walk  off,  dismayed  and  humiliated. 


218  THE  BULL,  THE  GIRL,  AND  THE  SHAWL 

But,  pending  that  form  of  the  story,  I 
am  studiously  avoiding  all  novels  that  con- 
tain heroines  with  red  shawls,  or  that  make 
early  reference  to  fierce  bulls,  or  that 
speak  of  a  certain  ten-acre  lot  peculiarly 
adapted  for  lovers'  peregrinations ;  for, 
like  the  successful  burglar,  I  know  the 
combination. 


XXXVII 
CONCERNING  DISH-WASHING 

IAS  the  reader  ever  considered 
how  much  time  is  wasted  every 
day  by  busy  women  in  the  work 
of  washing  dishes?  Of  course,  if  a  man 
has  plenty  of  money  and,  from  philan- 
thropic motives,  engages  a  girl  to  perform 
this  unpleasant — I  had  almost  said  "  duty  " 
— this  unpleasant  task,  I  suppose  we  can- 
not, strictly  speaking,  regard  her  time  as 
wasted,  for  she  might  else  be  loafing  in  an 
intelligence-office  without  gaining  a  scrap 
of  that  article.  I  refer  to  the  lives  led  by 
weary  housewives  who,  having  no  aid  from 
a  hired  housemaid,  day  out  and  day  in 
will  make  themselves  thin  by  the  never- 
ceasing  and  perfectly  useless  grind  of  dish- 
219 


220         CONCERNING  DISH-WASHING 

washing;  for  the  dishes  don't  stay  clean 
for  more  than  a  few  hours. 

For  years  I  ate  my  meals  in  selfish  con- 
tent, little  recking  at  what  cost  the  clean 
service  was  gained,  until  I  discovered  that 
my  sister,  who  is  also  my  housekeeper, 
had  sold  her  piano,  not  having  time  to  play 
upon  it.  I  was  shocked  to  think  what  a 
power  this  custom  of  dish-washing  had 
over  the  minds  of  the  feminine  portion  of 
our  public. 

But  this  dreadful  waste  of  time  that  is 
going  on  in  thousands  of  homes  in  this 
country  every  day  was  brought  home  to 
me  in  a  still  more  striking  manner  not 
long  after.  My  sister  went  away  to  visit 
a  friend,  and  left  me  to  keep  bachelor's 
hall.  I  had  always  had  a  good  taste  for 
cooking,  although  hitherto  my  practice  had 
been  confined  to  boiling  eggs  and  butter- 
ing hot  toast  on  a  plate  at  the  back  of  the 
stove.  The  first  meal  that  I  prepared,  a 
breakfast,  consisted  of  oatmeal,  steak,  fried 
potatoes,  bread,  butter,  milk,  and  water. 
We  will  pass  over  the  meal  itself,  as  its 
discussion  is  foreign  to  our  purpose.  In- 


CONCERNING  DISH-WASHING         221 

deed,  the  less  said  about  it  the  better.  It 
was  nine  when  I  had  finished  eating,  and 
dumped  my  dishes  and  knives  and  forks 
into  tepid  water.  I  am  a  fast  worker,  but 
the  clock  in  the  neighboring  church  had 
ceased  striking  twelve  when  my  last  dish 
was  wiped  and  put  away. 

I  had  hoped  to  do  a  little  writing  that 
morning,  but  it  was  now  time  to  get 
luncheon.  Luckily,  that  meal  called  into 
play  very  few  dishes,  and  by  two,  or  half- 
past,  I  had  made  an  end  of  my  second 
stint.  Feeling  elated  that  I  had  a  whole 
afternoon  on  my  hands,  I  prepared  a 
course  dinner.  I  found  some  cold  soup  in 
the  refrigerator,  and  I  bought  a  bluefish, 
five  or  six  pounds  of  beef  for  roasting, 
some  Parker  House  rolls,  and  a  lemon-pie 
for  dessert.  There  were  lettuce  and  eggs 
in  the  house,  and  plenty  of  canned  vege- 
tables. I  also  made  some  good  coffee, 
with  the  aid  of  a  French  coffee-pot,  that 
indispensable  adjunct  of  a  well-ordered 
household.  I  found  that  the  courses  were 
very  hard  to  manage  so  that  they  would 
follow  in  their  proper  order.  They 


CONCERNING   DISH-WASHING 


were  n't  even  satisfied  to  finish  together 
like  evenly  matched  racers,  but  the  roast 
was  burned  five  minutes  before  I  thought 

of  warming 
up  the  soup, 
and  ten  min- 
utes before  I 
51  had  scaled  the 

fish.     Then 
the  latter 


would  n't 
broil  readily 
until  most  of 
it  was  in  the 
fire.  The  vege- 
tables I  forgot 
entirely,  and  I  decided  at  the  last  moment 
to  deny  myself  the  salad,  as  dinner  was 
waiting  and  I  was  hungry.  I  might  add 
that  I  inadvertently  cut  the  pie  with  the 
fish-knife,  and  that  cast  a  damper  on  the 


CONCERNING   DISH-WASHING         223 

dessert.  However,  as  I  said,  the  coffee 
was  good — and,  anyhow,  I  am  digressing. 

It  was  seven  when  I  emptied  my  dishes 
into  the  water,  and  I  worked  with  a  will, 
as  I  had  a  very  exciting  novel  that  I  was 
desirous  of  finishing.  It  was  a  few  min- 
utes past  eleven  when  I  emptied  my  dish- 
pan  for  the  last  time,  and  then  I  was  ripe 
for  bed. 

As  time  wore  on  I  became  more  dex- 
terous in  the  use  of  the  dish-cloth  and 
-towel,  and  the  day  before  sister  returned 
I  devoted  but  six  hours  to  dish-washing. 
To  be  sure,  I  had  given  up  course  dinners, 
because  they  took  too  many  plates,  and  for 
other  reasons  that  need  not  to  be  quoted 
here. 

As  I  say,  I  am  a  fast  worker,  and  yet  it 
took  me  over  six  hours  a  day  to  clean  the 
crockery.  Assuming  that  a  woman  can 
do  it  in  eight  hours,  she  wastes  half  of  her 
waking  moments  in  drudgery  beside  which 
the  making  of  bricks  without  straw  would 
be  a  pastime. 

There  is  absolutely  nothing  in  the  dish- 
washing habit  to  recommend  it.  It  is 


224         CONCERNING  DISH-WASHING 

ruinous  to  hands  and  temper,  and,  indeed, 
I  do  not  see  but  that  it  is  immoral.  Any- 
thing that  puts  us  in  the  proper  mood  for 
swearing  is  immoral,  and  there  is  nothing 
in  the  whole  housekeeping  routine  so  con- 
ducive to  highly  spiced  language  as  dish- 
washing. 

And  to  what  purpose  is  this  waste  of 
time?  I  won't  go  so  far  as  to  advocate  a 
return  to  the  fingers  that  were  used  before 
forks  for  the  purpose  of  conveying  food 
to  the  mouth,  for  that  would  but  relieve 
us  from  the  washing  of  cutlery ;  but  I  will 
say  that  the  man  who  will  invent  a  cheap 
yet  very  ornate  dinner  service  that  may 
be  destroyed  after  once  using  will  have 
earned  the  undying  gratitude  of  the  women 
of  this  country  and  a  princely  fortune  be- 
sides. 

And  when  he  has  invented  it,  sister  may 
go  on  another  visit. 


XXXVIII 
A    PERENNIAL   FEVER 


HE  world  hears  much  of  the 
dangers  of  typhoid  and  yellow 
and  scarlet  fever,  and  the  skill  of 
physicians  is  ever  employed  to  reduce 
those  dangers  to  a  minimum ;  but  in  every 
country,  at  all  seasons  of  the  year,  there  is 
a  fever  that  numbers  its  victims  by  the 
thousand,  and  yet  no  doctor  has  ever  pre- 
scribed for  it,  nor  is  there  any  drug  in  the 
pharmacopoeia  that  will  alleviate  it. 

The  malady  to  which  I  refer  is  hen 
fever. 

If  a  city  woman  intends  marrying  a  city 
man,  and  then  moving  out  a  little  way  into 
the  country,  as  she  values  her  peace  of 
mind,  let  her  make  sure  that  he  is  immune. 
Unless,  indeed,  both  are  prepared  to  come 


226  A   PERENNIAL   FEVER 

down  with  it  at  once.  For  it  is  unlike  all 
other  fevers  in  that  a  man  and  his  wife 
may  have  it  together  and  be  happy  ;  but  if 
he  or  she  have  it  alone,  then  woe  be  to 
that  house. 

The  germs  of  hen  fever  are  carried  in  a 
chance  conversation,  in  a  picture  of  galli- 
naceous activity,  in  the  perusal  of  a  poul- 
try-book. A  man  hears  or  looks  or  reads, 
and  the  mischief  is  done.  The  subtle 
poison  is  in  his  blood,  although  he  knows 
it  not. 

Hen  fever  takes  various  forms.  With 
some  it  is  manifested  in  a  desire  to  keep  a 
few  blooded  fowls  and  breed  for  points; 
with  another,  to  keep  a  few  birds  for  the 
sake  of  fresh  eggs  and  broilers :  but  in 
whatsoever  form  it  come,  it  will  cause  the 
upheaval  of  its  victim's  most  cherished 
plans  and  habits. 

He  may  have  been  an  ardent  admirer 
of  Shakspere,  and  in  the  evenings  it  has 
been  his  wont  to  read  aloud  to  his  wife 
while  she  knitted ;  but  now,  little  recking 
what  she  does,  he  reads  to  himself  "  Farm 
Poultry  "  or  "  The  Care  of  Hens,"  or — and 


A   PERENNIAL   FEVER 


227 


this  is  the  second  stage  of  the  disease — he 
reads  aloud  to  her  that  hens  cannot  thrive 
without  plenty  of  gravel,  that  cracked 
wheat  is  better  than  whole  corn  for  growing 


pullets,  that  the  best  way  to  cure  a  hen  of 
eating  her  own  eggs  is  to  fill  one  with 
mustard,  etc. 

Time  was  when  he  had  an  opinion  on 
politics,  on  finance,  on  literature,  on  the 


228  A   PERENNIAL   FEVER 

thousand  and  one  things  that  make  for 
conversation,  and  his  neighbors  dropped 
in  to  hear  him  talk  engagingly  of  what  he 
had  read  or  seen;  but  now,  when  they 
come,  he  tells  them  that  his  brown  Leghorn 
hen  laid  twenty  eggs  in  twenty-five  days, 
while  his  buff  Cochin  laid  only  eight  in  the 
same  time ;  that  his  white  Plymouth  Rock 
is  crop-bound,  and  his  Wyandotte  rooster 
has  the  pip. 

Lucky  indeed  is  his  wife  if  he  stick  to 
the  good  old  way  of  hatching  chickens  by 
hens  instead  of  kerosene-oil;  for  if  he 
get  an  incubator  she  had  better  get  a 
divorce.  How  many  homes  have  been 
wrecked  by  patent  incubators  will  never 
be  known. 

But  even  if  the  fevered  one  stick  to  the 
natural  method  of  hatching,  there  will  be 
many  times  when  his  wife  will  wonder  why 
she  left  a  comfortable  and  sociable  home 
to  spend  her  evenings  alone ;  for  he  will 
be  in  the  hen-house,  setting  hens,  or  wash- 
ing soiled  eggs,  or  divesting  nestlings  of 
the  reluctant  shell,  or  .dusting  his  whole 


A   PERENNIAL   FEVER  229 

flock  with  the  snuff-like  insecticide,  or 
kerosening  their  roosts. 

With  some  the  fever  never  abates ;  with 
some  it  is  intermittent ;  some  have  it  hard- 
est in  the  spring  of  the  year,  when  hens 
are  laying  their  prettiest,  and  profits  may 
be  figured  in  money  as  well  as  on  paper. 
But  whether  it  be  light  or  heavy,  hen  fever 
will  run  its  course  without  let  or  hindrance  ; 
and,  as  I  have  hinted,  happy  is  the  wife 
who  comes  down  with  it  simultaneously 
with  her  husband  ;  for,  though  their  neigh- 
bors will  shun  them  as  they  would  a 
deadly  pestilence,  yet  they  will  be  com- 
pany for  each  other,  and  will  prate  cease- 
lessly, yet  cheerily,  upon  the  best  foods 
for  laying  hens,  the  best  exposure  for 
coops,  how  many  hens  can  live  in  one 
house  with  best  results,  when  a  chicken 
should  be  weaned  of  bread,  what  breed 
of  hens  is  least  idiotic,  and  kindred 
topics. 

As  for  me,  I  am  free  to  come  and  go 
among  hens ;  to  look  on  their  markings 
with  unmoved  eye;  to  view  their  output 


230  A   PERENNIAL   FEVER 

with  normal  pulse ;  to  hear  "  the  cock's 
shrill  clarion "  without  pricking  up  my 
ears;  to  read  of  the  latest  thing  in  incu- 
bators without  turning  a  hair:  for  I  have 
survived  the  fever;  I  am  an  immune. 


XXXIX 

"AMICUS   REDIVIVUS" 

JOSEPHUS  says,  "  Post  hoc  ergo 
propter  hoc,"  and  it  might  well 
be  applied  to  the  concerns  of  this 
day,  for  what  one  of  us  has  not  at  some 
time  or  other  felt  a  "  pactum  illicitum,"  a 
"  qualis  ab  incepto,"  as  it  were,  permeating 
his  whole  being,  and  bringing  vividly  be- 
fore the  retina  the  transitory  state  of  all 
things  worldly  ?  As  Chaucer  said : 

For  who  so  wolde  senge  the  cattes  skin, 
Than  wol  the  cat  wel  dwellen  in  here  in. 

For  it  cannot  be  gainsaid  that,  despite 
the  tendency  toward  materialism,  the 
cosmic  rush  and  the  spiritual  captivity  that 
lead  so  many  brave  souls  into  the  martyr- 
dom of  Achiacharus,  there  is  in  all  of  us  a 
231 


232  "AMICUS   REDIVIVUS" 

certain  quality  that  must  and  will  assert 
itself. 

It  seems  but  yesterday  that  Shelley,  in 
his  poem  on  "  Mutability,"  said: 

We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the  midnight  moon ; 

but  how  pat  is  the  application  to-day! 
We  are  as  clouds.  You  who  boast  your- 
self of  your  ancestry,  you  whose  dignity  is 
as  a  cloak  of  ermine,  ye  are  but  clouds. 
How  well  Goethe  knew  this!  We  all  re- 
member those  lambent  lines  of  his — I  can- 
not translate  adequately,  so  I  will  quote 
from  the  original  German : 

Fraulein  Anna,  das  Papier  in  Deutschland  ist 
wie  das  Papier  in  Amerika. 

Ages  ago  Sophocles  had  worded  it  in 
almost  the  same  phrase : 

Oh,  race  of  mortal  men  oppressed  with  care ! 
What  nothings  are  we,  like  to  shadows  vain, 
Cumb'ring  the  ground  and  wandering  to  and  fro. 

The  greatest  poets,  from  Le  Gallienne 
down  to  Shakspere,  have  been  aware  of 
this  evanescent  property  in  the  cumbrous 
and  exsufflicate  prowlers  amid  these 


•AMICUS    REDIVIVUS" 


233 


"  glimpses  of  the  moon."  Well  may  we  say 
with  Csesar,  "  Quamdiu  se  bene  gesserit." 
There  is  always  a  touch  of  ozone  in  the 
words  of  Horace,  and  we  find  him  saying 
of  this  very  thing,  "  Precieuse  ridicules 
pretiosa  supel- 
lex."  Could  it 
have  been  said 
better?  How 
airily  he  pricks 
the  bubble  of 
man's  self-es- 
teem! "Dressed 
in  a  little  brief 
authority,"  man 
plays  his  part 
amid  mundane 
happenings  tre- 
melloid  and  sejant,  and  with  a  sort  of  in- 
nate connascence,  a  primitive  conglutinate 
efflorescence,  he  approaches  nearer  and 
nearer,  day  by  day,  to  that  time  when,  as 
Shakspere  hath  it,  "  the  beachy  girdle  of 
the  ocean  "  will  resolve  itself  into  its  com- 
ponent parts,  and  man  as  man  will  cease 
to  exist. 


234  "AMICUS   REDIVIVUS" 

But,  to  pass  to  a  more  inchoate  view 
of  these  things, — to  the  "  opum  furiata 
cupido "  of  the  ancient  Latins, — what  is 
there  in  all  this  that  tends  to  lessen  a 
man's  self-glorification,  his  auto-apothe- 
osis ?  Victor  Hugo  can  tell  us : 

Petit  bourgeois  pere  La  Chaise 
Pour  prendre  conge  tour  de  force 

Connaisseur  tout  Therese 

Fagon  de  parler  Edmund  Gosse. 

The  author  of  "  Les  Miserables "  was 
himself  a  man,  and  he  knew.  And  no  less 
a  man  was  Coplas  de  Manrique,  and  in  his 
beautiful  lyric,  "  Caballeros,"  he  says: 

Tiene  Vd.-Usted  mi  sombrero 
Tiene  Vd.-Usted  mi  chaleco 

No  lo  tengo,  no  lo  tengo 
Tiene  Vd.-Usted  mi. 

"  Noblesse  oblige,"  and  it  behooves  all 
of  us,  however  mighty  our  positions  in  life, 
to  unbend  a  little  and  try  to  mollify  these 
manducable  and  irresoluble  phases  of  mo- 
lecular existence,  to  the  end  that  we  may 
accomplish  a  "  vis  medicatrix  naturae  "  and 
a  "  vade  mecum  "  that  shall  be  valuable  to 


"AMICUS   REDIVIVUS"  235 

us  in  our  journey  to  the  tomb  and  through 
nether  space. 

So,  then,  may  we  "  with  an  unfaltering 
trust  approach  our  grave,"  and,  as  Schiller 
says  so  musically : 

Ich  kann  nicht  mil  der  linken  Hand  schreiben. 


XL 
THE    PROPER    CARE    OF   FLIES 

jjT  is  a  fact  beyond  cavil  that  ninety- 
nine  flies  out  of  a  hundred  perish 
every  year  for  lack  of  proper 
care  on  the  part  of  housewives;  that  the 
attention  that  is  lavished  upon  the  house- 
cat,  if  expended  upon  the  house-fly,  would 
cause  him  to  stay  with  us  throughout  the 
twelvemonth. 

I  have  devoted  years  of  patient  study 
to  the  busy  buzzers,  and  I  speak  as  one 
having  authority.  Flies  need  warmth  as 
much  as  humans  do — nay,  more  than  their 
biped  brethren,  for  we  can  stand  the  early 
autumn  frosts  without  a  fire,  but  it  is  those 
few  days  that  kill  off  the  little  fellows  that 
have  been  our  winged  companions  through 
the  summer  season,  singing  in  the  new 
236 


THE    PROPER   CARE   OF   FLIES         237 

day,  sampling  our  butter  and  meats,  and 
tickling  us  half  to  death  with  their  erratic 
pilgrimages  and  divagations.  A  little 
forethought  on  our  part,  a  speedier  lighting 
of  the  furnace  fires,  and  flies  in  midwinter 
would  no  longer  be  a  rarity. 

This  well-nigh  universal  carelessness  is 
due  to  a  woeful  ignorance  as  to  the  habits 
of  the  fly,  and  not  to  intentional  cruelty. 
Why,  we  know  more  about  the  ways  of 
the  wapiti  than  of  the  most  common  occu- 
pant of  our  houses.  To  give  an  instance, 
most  people  refer  to  the  fly  as  a  scavenger, 
a  lover  of  tainted  meats  and  vegetables. 
This  is  only  because  he  is  so  often  forced  to 
eat  tainted  meat  or  go  without  altogether. 
There  are  fresh  milk  and  fish  for  the  cat, 
dainty  titbits  for  the  dog,  millet  and  rape 
for  the  canary ;  yet  how  many  Christian 
people  think  to  provide  something  tempt- 
ing for  the  flies?  But  too  often  we  be- 
grudge them  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  the 
table. 

So  far  from  flies  loving  "  high  "  meat,  it 
is  an  acquired  taste  with  them.  This  had 
long  been  a  theory  with  me,  but  it  is  only 


238        THE   PROPER   CARE   OF   FLIES 

a  year  since  I  proved  it  by  an  interesting 
experiment.  I  secured  a  setting  of  flies' 
eggs, — not  thoroughbred  eggs,  but  just  the 
ordinary  barn-yard  variety, — and  I  set  them 
under  a  motherly  bluebottle  fly,  after  I 
had  made  her  a  comfortable  nest  in  a  pill- 
box. I  saw  to  it  that  she  had  the  proper 
food  for  a  setting  fly — not  mush  and  milk, 
but  flakes  of  hominy  and  grains  of  sugar 
once  a  day.  I  also  dusted  her  nest  thor- 
oughly with  insecticide  and  covered  her 
with  a  tea-strainer  so  that  she  would  be 
secure  from  molestation  from  other  flies. 
For  three  weeks  she  was  faithful  to  her 
duties,  and  then,  one  morning,  I  saw  that 
she  had  experienced  the  sweet  joys  of 
motherhood,  for  there,  on  the  edge  of  her 
nest,  sat  thirteen — mark  the  number — 
cunning  little  flies,  pluming  and  preening 
themselves  with  innate  skill.  I  could 
scarce  keep  back  the  tears. 

For  a  few  days  I  let  the  little  flock  fol- 
low their  mother,  and  then  I  shut  them 
up  away  from  her  in  my  guest-chamber 
and  began  their  education.  The  sweetest 
milk  was  theirs  from  the  start,  and  after  a 


THE    PROPER   CARE   OF   FLIES        239 

week  of  bread  diet,  that  their  feathers 
might  be  strengthened,  I  began  to  give 
them  small  scraps  of  porter-house  steak 
and  Southdown  mutton.  It  was  wonder- 


ful to  see  how  the  little  beggars  throve. 
One  night  I  slept  in  the  guest-chamber, 
and  they  awoke  me  before  the  robin's 
matin  song,  although  they  were  not  three 
weeks  old.  Their  tread  had  a  firmness,  a 
titillating  power,  that  never  comes  to  a 
tramp  fly  or  to  one  improperly  nurtured. 
Then,  their  buzzing  was  so  sonorous  that 
sleep  was  impossible  once  they  tuned  up, 


240        THE   PROPER   CARE   OF   FLIES 

so   I   was  in   no    danger   of   becoming  a 
drowse-abed. 

When  they  were  two  months  old  I  de- 
termined to  test  my  theory.  I  procured 
some  meat  from  the  larder  of  a  gormand 
friend  of  mine,  and  brought  it  into  my 
guest-chamber  in  an  air-tight  box.  Then 
I  opened  the  box  and  awaited  develop- 
ments. If  flies  are  natural-born  birds  of 
carrion,  then  they  would  rush  upon  this  stuff 
with  avidity.  I  hid  behind  the  arras — if  I  am 
quite  sure  what  arrases  are — and  watched 
my  little  pets  with  some  concern.  They 
flew  over  to  the  meat,  sniffed  it  disdain- 
fully, buzzed  with  ire  for  a  few  seconds, 
and  then  flew  to  the  ceiling  with  every 
appearance  of  disgust.  '  Then  the  largest 
one  signaled  to  his  fellows,  and  they  flew 
down  once  more,  lifted  the  "  condemned 
beef "  in  their  talons  as  firemen  seize  a 
life-preserving  net,  and  sailed  to  the  open 
window,  where  they  dropped  it.  In  five 
minutes'  time  it  was  black  with  flies  that 
had  not  received  proper  nurture.  Was  I 
pleased?  I  was  delighted.  I  set  forth  a 
feast  of  sugar  on  top  of  my  bald  head,  and 


THE   PROPER  CARE  OF  FLIES        241 

sat  in  the  guest-chamber  until    my  pets 
had  made  an  end  of  eating. 

The  nineteenth  century  is  nearing  its 
close,  and  the  house-fly  is  not  a  perfect 
insect;  but,  housekeeper,  it  lies  with 
you  to  improve  the  breed.  Exercise  a 
little  care  in  the  choice  of  their  food,  and 
when  the  biting  days  of  early  fall  come 
upon  the  land,  make  provision  for  warm- 
ing your  little  guests  of  the  summer  days, 
and  if  the  winds  of  winter  whistle  sharp 
they  will  be  answered  by  the  hot  little 
buzz  of  myriads  of  flies. 


000  118525 


